


what we know

by iaintinapatientphase



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 76,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaintinapatientphase/pseuds/iaintinapatientphase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not afraid. I know who I married." - Alexander/Eliza Schuyler Hamilton</p><p>Secrets, discoveries, and what it means to know someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: just you wait

The world changes the year Eliza Schuyler turns eighteen.

After years of growing tension and taxes, the colonies declare their independence. It seemed like this day would never come - her father’s friends discussing revolt and independence and policy for hours has been the constant background of her life - and now that it’s here it’s almost surreal. Though the threat of war with Britain hangs over their heads, in typical New York fashion, they go about their day to day anyway.

It would be a big year for her in any political climate. Her big sister, Angelica, her best friend, is finishing her first year of college, having left her and Peggy behind. Figuratively, of course, as their whole family goes to Kings which is just a train ride away from their Upper East Side apartment. Eliza will join her there next year, and Peggy the year after that.

But a year is a long time, especially when she's gone from a British subject to an American citizen in the time it took for John Hancock to scribble his name. She’s been trying for a while to figure out what her place in this new world might be, and now’s her chance. As much as she loves her sisters, she can’t help but think about what it might mean to be a college student, a girl on the verge of becoming a woman, with enough anonymity and distance created by different majors to ensure they aren’t overshadowing her at every turn. To be Eliza Schuyler, not just one of the Schuyler sisters.

She doesn’t really know who that is yet, even though everyone else seems to think they do.

Angelica calls her “baby sis,” and protects her fiercely as only the oldest sibling can, sharing old homework assignments and teaching her how to drink responsibly, taking experimental shots together sitting close together on her bed and braiding her hair so when she throws up later it doesn’t get messy.

Peggy, a year younger yet somehow so much more worldly, calls her “Saint Elizabeth” and looks up to her, comes to her for advice, and takes her word as gospel truth. Even if she doesn’t follow it, she’s always believed Eliza is incapable of doing anything truly wrong or immoral.

Her parents call her “honey,” and worry endlessly about her, making her call home to check in whenever she takes the train alone. They’re almost overly supportive, reassuring her that no matter what major she chooses, they’ll make sure she never has to struggle. The Schuylers are old money rich and made nervous both by Eliza’s interest in social work and disinterest in being set up with any of the nice young men in their circle that would financially support her while she pursues her dream, albeit low paying, career.

The boys at school call her Eliza, never “baby,” never “gorgeous,” never come too close. She watches her sisters scream and fight and cry over their boyfriends with a mixture of jealousy and disinterest. One or two take her on a date to the movies, hold her hand, kiss her goodbye at the door, but she doesn’t feel anything for them and she doubts they do for her. She’s a “nice girl,” a “good girl,” and high school boys don’t want the pressure.

Lately she’s been chafing at the way everyone seems to have her pigeon holed and pettily subverting it. To her dissatisfaction, it doesn’t work. She’s bitchy to her sisters and they apologize for offending her. She stays out too late and doesn’t answer her phone, and her parents are only relieved when she comes home and remind her to call them if she ever gets lost.

Everyone calls her sweet, wide-eyed, trusting, kind, darling, generous, innocent, naive, honest, pure, adorable - gullible, stupid, they don’t say, but she hears it anyway. She knows, of course, that those aren’t bad things, and that there’s more than a grain of truth in them. She’s always been shy, and when she examines herself critically in the mirror she sees how her big dark eyes and propensity to blush unbidden can make her look like Bambi in human form. She doesn’t really have any interest in staying out too late or causing teenage mayhem, and genuinely loves her time spent volunteering at the orphanage in Washington Heights. She knows, deep down, that she’s not as brilliant as Angelica and not as quick with a witty comeback as Peggy, that her intelligence is a kind that relies on a strong work ethic. But she’s also jealous and resentful, watching her sisters get all the attention. She’s angry, with the British, with the patriots and the hypocritical way they disregard the poor, with the older men that unabashedly stare at her when she's out for a run. She’s callous, refusing to care about the constant drama of the myriad of families in their social circle that she has to suck up to just because they have money or live in the building next door, acting oblivious and distant to get out of fake, obligatory friendships with their daughters of similar ages.

It’s disorienting, to have everyone tell her who she is when so much of her doesn’t fit their definition. She doesn’t mind being cute, bleeding heart Eliza as long as she also gets to be smart, hardworking, thoughtful, stubborn, human Eliza.

She’s waiting for something, preparing herself for the storm she knows is coming, waiting for it to shake her hidden self loose.

Seniors get to leave early on Fridays, so Eliza takes the train to go see Angelica and go to one of the rallies in the college square. They get there a few minutes early, and Angelica launches into a rapid fire conversation with two people she recognizes from her ethics class. Eliza is content to sit on the warm edge of the sun soaked fountain, watching the crowd gather for the debate.

A young man sits down next to her and gives her a practiced smile. “Excuse me, miss. What’s a pretty girl like you doing at a mess like this?” he asks, gesturing at the mass of students pushing each other for a better view.

“I like to listen to the speeches,” Eliza says. “History is happening here, I’d be crazy to miss it.”

“You’re crazy to come down to this field in your fancy heels,” he teases, though not unkindly. She’s reflexively embarrassed of her high school uniform, but he flicks his eyes down and up her legs slowly, the intent clear, and she feels warm all over.

She smiles back at him. “These don’t just look good, they make sure I don’t have to fight for a spot in the front. I give these things a bit of thought, you know.”

He laughs, a rich, low sound. “I’m sure you do, miss…?”

“Are you kidding me?” Angelica appears next to them, and both Eliza and the guy shoot up. “Eliza,” she says cooly, eyes fixed on the stranger’s, “these are exactly the kind of guys I told you to stay away from. Burr, you disgust me.”

“So you’ve discussed me?” Burr says with an unrepentant grin. “Relax, Angelica, I didn’t know she was one of your ‘little’ sisters.” The quotes around “little” are blatantly, mockingly clear, even if he doesn’t move his hands from his pockets. “If anything, as a fellow trust fund baby, I’m one of the only guys here that the “Schuyler sisters” should be around at all.”

“You are such a snob,” Angelica sneers.

He laughs again, entirely unbothered. “Maybe. I’ll leave you to it. Go back to looking for some poor urchin to give you some ideals and street cred. I’ll see you in class on Monday.” He gives Eliza a wink. “Nice to meet you, Eliza.”

Eliza waves back at him, stifling a giggle.

Angelica drops the ice queen act and turns to her with her Big Sister face on. “Are you okay? Was that asshole bothering you?”

“I’m fine, ‘Gelica. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Angelica says without even a trace of sincerity.

Eliza sighs, but drops it. It really isn’t worth fighting over right now anyway. A tall, skinny young man has taken his place at the podium, and the crowd falls silent.

“My name is Samuel Seabury, and I present free thoughts on the Continental Congress,” he begins formally, the crowd listening intently in anticipation.

It doesn’t last long. The faculty at Kings may be conservative, but the students are revolutionaries one and all, and Seabury’s self-righteous condemnation of the “rabble” strikes a nerve. A shorter guy with a ponytail jumps on stage and starts trying to provoke Seabury into a debate, who stubbornly sticks to his notes. He tries his best to ignore him, even as a group of what are presumably the new guy’s friends start leading the crowd in loud boos and cheers.

She watches the faces and body language of the crowd shift: first skeptical, then surprised, amused, and inspired. When ponytail finally drives a shamefaced Seabury off the stage, they turn as one to watch him go, and then snap back when the victor starts up again. She watches as the students put their phones away, stop shifting from foot to foot, and stand in rapt attention, as one turns to another, eyes shining, whispering “wow.” Angelica is listening, awestruck, eyes fixed on the speaker. The specifics of the argument fade away, as they usually do, for Eliza, who’s more affected by atmospheres than individuals. The energy is captivating, all these young, hungry minds in search of something they don’t understand yet.

This is where it’s happening, this time, and this place. She’s lucky to be alive right now, and she doesn’t intend on wasting her life living as someone else’s version of herself. Eliza Schuyler doesn’t know exactly who she is yet, but she knows it’s only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even though this is about her at its core, no more eliza pov until the epilogue. no one is sadder than me.
> 
> i'm also sorry if you liked 'by your side,' because this is way more painful.


	2. in dire need of assistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Alex has spent the last ten years reading everything he can find about war heroes dying for their causes. An orphan from the Caribbean, he’s always known that his days were numbered and his prospects slim, but he dreamed of going down in history like the men in the stories he read. Washington isn’t wrong, but it sounds different when said out loud. More naive than romantic.

It’s a hot, miserable night, the kind that you can only get through by turning up all the fans and lying in a dark room, flinching away from any corner of a sheet that tries to touch you. Alex remembers them well, although the hottest night he’s experienced in New York is still mild compared to summers in his Caribbean home. He runs his sleeve over his forehead, wiping away the sweat, and turns back to the task at hand.

“Ready!” he yells.

The soldiers around him rise up from where they crouch behind a crumbling wall. They’re falling back (retreating, even if they won’t call it that) from the British push through Manhattan to Brooklyn. The Continental Army, Alex heard, is supposed to be racing towards them from Pennsylvania to help stop the British advance through the city, but he can’t count on that.

“Aim!”

They line their guns up, struggling to find even the distinctive red of the British soldiers’ coats in the smoke filled air. When Alex and Hercules got the idea to form their own student resistance group, they never imagined that it would take them this close to the action. They drilled for hours a day with weapons bought by the Sons of Liberty, but until the British landed on their shores a few weeks ago, they still never truly believed it’d get this far. They had to abandon Kings weeks ago. The British pushed them all the way down to where they’re making their last stand, desperately trying to hold the Brooklyn Bridge with a few college kids and a prayer. Alex takes a deep breath and yanks the pin from the grenade he holds in his hand.

“Fire!”

He hurls the grenade towards the British line and the sounds of fresh gunfire fill the air. A British Humvee explodes in a burst of flame and he hears Herc whooping in celebration.

“Let’s go!” he yells and the group sprints forward, breaking through the wreckage and regaining another precious few feet.

The British finally stop pushing forward for the night, which is already well underway. After setting up watch schedules, Alex, Hercules, and half of the rest head back to the abandoned townhouse they’ve been holing up in.

Though every cell in his body screams for rest, Alex can’t even make himself sit down when the threat of tomorrow gets closer by the literal second. They’re holding on by the skin of their teeth, and their pleas to the army have gone unanswered. The British can’t take New York, the city of American ingenuity, their economic engine. Even if they’ve taken over most of it anyway the symbolism of losing the entire island is huge. He won’t be the one responsible for letting it slip away.

“We can’t keep going on like this,” he says, pacing back and forth. “They’re killing us with this constant bombing.”

Hercules nods. “We need more men. I’ve been calling the Sons daily, trying to get them to send some of the upstate guys here. We can’t hold this bridge for long by ourselves.”

“The army has to be coming, right? I heard days ago that General Washington was on his way.”

“We can’t wait,” he says bluntly. “We have another day or two but that’s it. They’re bombing the hell out of us and we have nothing to fight back with.”

Alex sighs, running a hand through his hair and thinking wildly. Then it comes to him.

“Yo,” Alex says. Herc looks up from the map. “Let’s steal their cannons.”

He grins widely. “Fuck yeah.”

There’s no time to waste. Hercules, brilliant with computers, hacks in and gets layouts of the British camp. They throw a plan together in an hour and send out a round of urgent texts. The Sons of Liberty and a few other student militias meet up with them at the townhouse a few minutes past midnight, battle-scarred yet still ready for a fight. They drag the entire British artillery two miles uptown, hiding part of the stash and lining the other half up along the front lines. The next day they bomb the fuck out of them and push them a few miles back.

Then the British, with their never ending flood of resources financed by the insane taxes levied on the colonies, land a few planes full of cannons and men and shove them back to the bridge. They’re barely holding on when the army finally arrives and beats them into a stalemate for the night.

When the dust clears, Alex and Hercules collapse on a stoop together, sharing a single bottle of water they found in an abandoned bodega.

“Hey! You are Alexander Hamilton, correct?” It’s dark, but Alex can clearly make out the uniform that identifies the stranger as a relatively high ranking member of the Continental Army. He feels a pang of jealousy he thought he was too exhausted to summon: Alex and Hercules designed the (badass and cool as hell) uniforms for their little unit, but he still craves the legitimacy of the official get up.

Alex sits up. “That’s me.”

“Come with me,” the tall officer with an accent orders. “The General wants to see you.”

“General Washington?”

“Yes.”

He looks disbelievingly back at Hercules, whose singed eyebrows are raised in confusion.

“You want me to come with?”

He does.

“Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ll see you back at base later,” Alex says, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

He gets up, leaning gingerly on the leg he hurt diving out of the way of a bullet earlier.

“Let’s go.”

The officer nods and starts walking briskly down the street. Alex follows.

“Who are you?”

“I am Major General Lafayette, though Lafayette is fine. I am one of the General’s aides.”

“How long have you been with General Washington?”

“A few months now. We were introduced shortly after I came from France, and we have worked together ever since. He is a great man, I am sure you have heard.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Alex agrees. “I’m a big admirer of his.”

“Well, then it is your lucky day,” Lafayette says, finally cracking a bit of a smile. “He was much impressed by your plan to steal the cannons.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Alex grins, a giddy triumph filling him despite his exhaustion.

They walk another few minutes in silence before approaching a young woman standing sentry outside the camp.

“Password?”

“Hancock,” Lafayette answers. “This is Alexander Hamilton, I am bringing him to see the General.”

“Cool.” The guard yawns. “Laf, can you bring me some coffee when you get the chance?”

“Of course, _cherie_ ,” he says warmly. “I will be back soon.”

He follows Lafayette to a large tent set up between two large SUVs. He pokes his head inside.

“Your excellency?”

“Yes?” a deep voice replies.

“I have brought you Hamilton.”

“Good, send him in. You’re free for the night, Lafayette. Get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lafayette motions for Alex to enter the tent. “I will see you around, I hope, Alexander.”

“Thanks,” Alex says. He takes a deep breath and steps inside.

Alex has heard enough stories detailing his legendary honestly, his elegance, his eloquence, his superhuman abilities, but none of them seem to quite fit the man in front of him. General Washington looks exactly like America’s commander in chief should, like a modern Atlas. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and solemn, giving off an air of extreme competence and quiet power.

“Hamilton, come in,” he says, gesturing towards a beat up chair. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Alex straightens up immediately. “Nothing, sir, just landed on it wrong earlier. I’m fine, sir.”

The general gives him a stern look and Alex immediately sits down.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” Alex bursts out, unable to wait a second longer.

“On the contrary. I called you here to commend you for your service. You’re a young man of great renown, Hamilton. I know you stole the cannons that saved us today.”

“Thank you, sir.” He keeps himself calm but he can barely restrain himself from freaking out. Even after the whirlwind of the last two years, he never imagined he’d be sitting with and receiving compliments from General George Washington. He feels a strange urge to call his brother, even though they haven’t spoken since Alex left a few years ago.

“I have to ask, why has nobody been able to get you on their staff? I know Greene and Knox both made offers.”

“To be their secretaries,” he answers, frowning. “I don’t think so.”

“An aide de camp isn’t a secretary, Hamilton,” Washington corrects him.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not.”

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m not,” he says defensively. “I’d just rather fight than answer the phone.”

Washington, miraculously, laughs. “It’s alright. I was just like you when I was younger. Hungry for the chance to prove myself on the battlefield.”

“Yes,” Alex agrees.

“Head full of fantasies of dying like a martyr,” he continues.

He doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Alex has spent the last ten years reading everything he can find about war heroes dying for their causes. An orphan from the Caribbean, he’s always known that his days were numbered and his prospects slim, but he dreamed of going down in history like the men in the stories he read. Washington isn’t wrong, but it sounds different when said out loud. More naive than romantic.

“I guess.”

“Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder.”

Alex has known that for years. Living as a bastard in the deeply religious neighborhood he grew up in was hard. Watching his mother struggle to put food on the table was hard. His father never remembering how old he was or if he could read yet was hard.

Living is hard, he knows, remembering struggling to breathe, delirious with fever, racked with pain. It was too hard for his mother to keep fighting, and hard to fathom life when she was gone. It’s hard to keep living when your demons corner you like they did his cousin, driving him to put a bullet in his mouth while Alex was in the next room.

Living on nothing but your own sweat and wits is hard, he knows. Staying alive as human traffickers smuggle you over the border is harder, he learns when he finds a dead girl (his own age, barely fourteen) in the cargo hold of a ship he’s inspecting one day. Being forced to continue working for those men in order to stay off the streets and in high school is hard, too.

Living through a hurricane when almost everyone else dies is hard. Trying to escape your island and get the chance at a better life is hard. Being smarter but still less educated than everyone at your college is hard. Realizing your only chance to achieve anything is to join the army is hard.

Living is harder. Living is, harder. Living, is harder. Living is harder living is harder livingisharderlivingis _harderlivingisharder_

“Son?”

Most days, dying really does sound easier.

“Why are you telling me this?” Alex asks quietly.

“I’m being honest,” the general sighs. “I’m working with a third of what our Congress has promised. The British outmatch us in every way: guns, manpower, ships, funds, training, everything. We’ve held on for this long, but they’re about to push us out of Manhattan. I’m doing the best I can, but there’s only so much that I can do. I need someone like you to lighten the load.”

“Sir?”

“I can’t keep the militias together, Congress at bay, and try to stop these men from retreating every chance they get all on my own,” Washington says. Alex gets the sense that he hasn’t been able to unburden himself, even of his worries, in a while. “I know you want to fight, but there are other weapons besides a gun. There is so much work to be done here and I need someone as smart as you are to help me manage everything. I’d like you to be one of my aides.”

“Oh,” Alex says, stalling. Washington is right. He doesn’t want to leave his company behind. He’s never felt as alive as he does in the midst of a fight, and as stupid as Washington made his dreams of glory on the battlefield sound a moment ago, they’re impossible to let go of. But he’s always known that the war was his only shot to get ahead, and he can’t turn down this opportunity. Logically, he knows this is the best decision he can make. A tiny, miniscule, emotional part of himself also wants desperately to save Washington from being crushed under the weight of his position.

“So?”

“You need all the help you can get, sir,” he says candidly. “I have a few ideas on where to get started.”

“Is that a yes?”

Alex nods rapidly. “Yes, sir. I think you should start with counterintelligence. I have this friend, Mulligan, he’s really good with computers, you should talk to him. He’s the one who found the layout of the British camp, he can help get some spies on the inside.”

“Good. What else?” Washington prompts.

“We have to get Congress to approve more funds. I know you’ve been working on it, but I can help. I have an idea on how to get them to finally take notice, it involves a few special reports and a bit of theatrics. I’ll give you a sketch by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I look forward to it. What else?” Washington is smiling, leaning forward in his chair towards him.

“We don’t just need better information, we need better communication. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on administration, I’ll handle that. There should be clear processes and channels for information flow, making sure that nothing gets missed and that no one gets bogged down and cc’d on a million emails they don’t need to be. Efficiency and energy are critical.”

“I agree.”

“We also have to start-”

“Hamilton, we can start tomorrow. Go get some rest,” Washington orders, but his eyes are warm. “Report for duty first thing tomorrow.”

Alex goes, but he doesn’t get any rest. He stays up almost all night, teeming with excitement, drawing up a processes map for communication between militias, officers, and headquarters. He presents it to the general first thing the next morning, and he swears he sees shoulders lift just an inch.

\---------

“I understand that resources are tight, but the reality is that we won’t survive another advance without more guns.”

A knock sounds on the door. Predictably, neither Hamilton nor Lafayette notice, too absorbed in what they’re writing. George Washington sighs and takes his hand away from rubbing his aching forehead to nudge Hamilton on the shoulder. The young man looks up with a start.

“The door,” he mouths, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. Hamilton nods and goes to answer it.

“No, we need the resources taken out of subsidizing state militias and put behind the Continental Army. What’s the point in having a unified strategy if we aren’t going to fund it?” The chorus of blowhard delegates starts up again and he fights back a groan.

Standing beside Hamilton is another short young man rocking nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. When he notices Washington’s eyes on him he snaps to attention and salutes. “Sir,” he says in a confident, clear voice. Good.

Washington returns his salute and holds up a finger. “Gentlemen, I have to go. Please consider the numerous requests I’ve sent you and remember what’s at stake.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the table, where Lafayette saves it from skidding off.

“Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, I presume?” He says, turning to the newcomer.

“Yes, sir,” he confirms. “At your service.”

Washington knows immediately his suspicions about Henry Laurens are correct. In all the time Henry spent trying to get his son promoted to this ambassador position, or given his own command in South Carolina, or pimping him out to whoever else might be able to do him a favor, he spoke of his eldest son in dispassionate platitudes. Washington knows all about his stellar education, his family connections, but Henry Laurens never once mentioned the devotion to the cause that lights up his son’s eyes and the clear, quiet way he holds himself that hints at how brave he must be.

“Welcome aboard. I’ve heard good things about you from those at Brandywine. This is Lafayette and Hamilton, you’ll be working with them.”

The three exchange a round of handshakes. He fights back a laugh watching them grip each others hands as tightly as possible and draw themselves up to their tallest height, Hamilton and Laurens with little success. Young men and their egos.

Washington’s phone rings again. “Who is it?”

Lafayette looks at the screen. “John Jay. Do you want to take it?”

“Yeah.” He answers. “Hold on just a second.” He turns back to his aides. “Can you two brief Laurens? Quickly,” he adds, mostly for Hamilton’s sake.

“John, your Congress is killing us.”

He argues with Jay for a while, who is like minded, but doesn’t seem to understand the urgency of his requests. Congress talks at length about liberty and freedom, but they don’t understand what it takes to make those things real and are unwilling to sacrifice their high-minded principles (hating militarism, resisting taxes) for any sort of practical gain. Safe in their ivory tower, they can’t imagine what the day to day on the ground is like. Or at least they couldn’t before. Hamilton, with his gift for words, imbues even the driest, most standard reports with vivid detail and sends enough that they’re impossible to ignore. Washington hopes they can win the army few more real allies.

When he finally hangs up the phone, Hamilton is still running on behind him.

“Got it?”

“Sure,” Laurens says cheerily. “Most of it, anyway. I’ll figure it out.”

“There is no way he has got it. You have barely explained anything except how smart and important you think you are. I am sorry, Laurens, you will find that he never shuts up,” Lafayette huffs. “He leaps,” he pauses. “Alexander, how you say ‘ _sauter du coq à l’âne_ ’ in English?”

“Why should I translate for you when you’re trashing me, Gilb?”

Lafayette says something long and disparaging sounding which Hamilton takes offense to, and the pair spend a minute arguing in French and apparently forgetting all about their new addition. Laurens doesn’t seem to mind, however. He watches the two bicker with a small, amused smile.

Washington clears his throat and his two ridiculous young aides snap back to attention.

“Right. Sorry, sir,” Hamilton says apologetically. “What Lafayette was trying to say is that I _allegedly_ leap from topic to topic too quickly, which is only an issue if you can’t keep up. You don’t look like you’ll have that issue.”

“Hamilton, show Laurens his tent and then both of you come back here. We have reports to finish.”

The two small men file out of the room, and he can hear Hamilton starting up again as they walk down the hallway. Good. From what he’s heard of Laurens, he could certainly use a friend. And Hamilton…

Hamilton is his own special case. Washington plucked him from command of his own battalion, and with his drive and brains, he would have certainly continued his quick rise through the ranks. He needs him though. Not just him personally, though he can’t remember how he possibly got through all the writing and strategizing and thinking before he had Hamilton’s quick mind and nonstop pen. By far the smartest of his aides, he manages to outwork them all as well which is no small feat. He’s brilliant, thinking twenty steps ahead. He goes off on tangents in his papers that Washington almost regrets editing out for necessary brevity; taking what is a simple call for more funds from Congress to a scathing critique of their current lack of power to tax to a proposal of a new system for taxing and collecting. He’s envisioning their country’s future when most of his contemporaries can’t see past the next battle. The army needs him, and when this is over, the country will need him most of all.

But Hamilton is hungry, maybe more so than anyone else, and he won’t be content to serve at his right hand for long. Washington regrets that he has to keep him from his dreams of glory, but he’s too valuable to lose to a bullet. The two share almost identical politics and similar dreams for the future, and he prays every day that they’ll live to create them. That’s what he tells him, and it’s certainly true. Hamilton, like Lafayette said, never shuts up, his sheer presence manages to make most people forget how small he is, how delicate, that edge of desperation in his eyes. Though Hamilton’s never told him anything about his background, he’s read his file, has seen him shivering in the autumn cold, and is smart enough to figure out the rest. No wonder he throws himself so entirely into his work. He has nothing else. Washington, childless, feels almost personally responsible for his welfare. He relishes his paternal relationship with Lafayette, whose family of French nobility has never been particularly warm. He thought he could help fill that gaping void in Alex’s life, give him a father figure to stabilize him a bit.

He thought wrong, apparently. Hamilton is uncompromisingly formal with him, even as he latches onto and fights and laughs with Lafayette and the rest. After the first time he visibly stiffened when Washington called him ‘son,’ he’s kept himself from trying again.

It’s harder than he imagined it would be, especially when Alex just makes him so incredibly proud every day.

Still. It’s good that he has his friends.

\---------

Alex and John become fast friends. Almost immediately, they’re inseparable. Similar in height, demeanor, and duties, the other men around camp start asking where “the other one” is when they’re seen alone.

As fall turns into winter, they move from camping in New York to an abandoned office building just across the river in New Jersey, which becomes their home base between missions to Philadelphia and other nearby battles. They write together, all day, and long into the night. Washington’s letters, dispatches to Congress, and when they find a spare moment, long essays for Alex’s blog and once, thrillingly, the New York Times. He’s the push Alex needs to take his ideas out of the theoretical and into practice, moving him from studying theory to experimenting with implementation. John matches his passion on every issue, but he’s more action oriented. He’s already sent three proposals for integrated units to the Continental Congress and tries desperately to find a work around. He’s angry and frustrated by their inaction, temper running hot and driving him even harder.

Alex understands that. He’s angry too, but his is a dark, insidious kind that sneaks up on him and chokes him from the inside. It’s a self destructive streak and a deep seated paranoia. John is a scorching, bleeding blaze of fury that seethes out through the cracks of his charming, witty exterior. It’s not that John isn’t genuinely good natured, because he is. But he takes to the raw energy and danger of the revolution like picking up the steps to a dance drilled into him by a lifetime of biting his tongue. There are so many opportunities for him to right the numerous wrongs that haunt him.

John hates the British, having grown up feeling inadequate in a London boarding school, witnessing their callous disregard for the colonies as little more than a piggy bank to plunder, then their soldiers following him back after graduation to his beloved country and ruining it with their greed and violence. He hates Governor Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, made sick by his rhapsodies about freedom, liberty, and equality while profiting from his slave owning parents’ wealth and using undocumented immigrants as cheap labor. He hates his father most of all, a racist, reactionary South Carolina good-old-boy that John watches be elevated to the presidency of the Continental Congress. He’s placed all of his high hopes and his entire bleeding heart into the revolution, and feels personally betrayed when they choose such inadequate leaders.

He confesses to Alex one night that he worries Washington only chose him because of who his father is. He tears himself in two, caught between his hero worship of the general and his resentment of his father, working himself into a frenzy that Alex is only able to snap him out of by telling him about the time Washington called Henry Laurens a do-nothing jackass (which is true).

They’re two sides of a coin, one from privilege, one from poverty, but they share the same fears: that they’re not good enough, that they’ll be exposed as frauds, that they’ll lose this war. It draws them together and Alex learns what it’s really like to be seen by someone else.

Alex really likes John.

He looks at him and feels himself smiling too wide, and he wonders if John can tell that he literally can’t help it; that he feels himself get giddy when he looks at him. He knows he stands too close and talks too loud and lets his hands linger on John’s arm too long. And John is reserved, underneath his temper and bluster, he’s incredibly introverted. As much as he rails against inaction in government, in his personal life he isn’t the type to initiate, to slide closer. But he always makes room for Alex on the other side of his desk and never goes to a meal without him. They work side by side for hours, and he sometimes sings along with Alex’s music under his breath.

It’s something. It’s something Alex can’t find the words yet for, but it’s something.

Something that has them maneuvering drunkenly back to John’s room together one night after drinking too much with the rest of the guys. They haven’t seen any action in weeks, and are reeling with pent up energy. They spend most nights drinking or boxing in the makeshift ring they set up in the basement. Alex makes jokes about the hyper-masculinity of it all, but there’s something to be said for the way drinking games can give someone a false sense of accomplishment.

When he wins, that is.

“I thought you said you were good at beer pong,” Alex whines. “That’s why I made you be my partner.”

“No, I said I wish I was good, because I know that you’re garbage,” John says, too loudly.

“I am not garbage, I just don’t have a lot of experience. I wasn’t of legal drinking age when I got to school!”

“I cannot believe they don’t teach drinking games at fancy private colleges. No wonder you’re such a snob.”

Alex scoffs, face twisting. “I’m the snob? How many rooms does the Laurens’ ‘estate’ have?” he says with dramatic air quotes.

John gives him the finger as they stumble to a stop in front of his door and he struggles to unlock the door.

“Hurry up,” Alex complains. “I know you have pizza rolls and I need some.”

“Fuck off,” John mumbles, concentrating intently on the door. It finally swings open. “Aha! I’m a genius.”

Alex follows him inside, making a beeline for the fridge.

“Get your own pizza rolls, man. Your room is literally two steps down the hall.”

“Too far,” Alex says absently, already dumping the entire box onto a plate and shoving it into the microwave. “I’m cooking for you and everything, don’t be so ungrateful.”

“Stealing my food is not cooking. You didn’t even do it right, the ones in the middle are still gonna be frozen and the ones on the outside are gonna leak the pizza juice everywhere.”

“Ew, man, it is pizza filling not juice!” He sticks his tongue out, disgusted. “Ugh, I’m not even hungry anymore.”

John sighs and sprawls out on the couch. “There’s the pizza filling, which is the good stuff on the inside. Then there’s that red greasy stuff that leaks out everywhere and gets all over your white shirts. That’s pizza juice.”

“I have no idea what language you’re speaking,” Alex says, pressing his hands to his eyes. “I hope that it’s just the alcohol making me hear nonsense because that just sounded like a lot of noise to me.”

A pillow hits him in the face. “That’s what you sound like all the time, never shutting the fuck up the way you do. Imagine how the rest of us feel.”

“Damn, Laurens, don’t hold anything back,” he huffs indignantly.

“Aw, man, don’t be offended. You know I was kidding,” John says. “Come here, Ham.” He grabs Alex by the arm and drags him down onto the couch. He lands in a tangle of limbs, which they drunkenly try to sort out, eventually ending up sprawled next to each other, Alex’s head resting on John’s shoulder and John’s head tipped on top of his. Alex sighs contentedly and lets his eyes fall closed, letting the sound of John’s heartbeat lull him to sleep.

The microwave beeps. “Pizza rolls,” he remembers. He attempts to stand up, but his limbs seem to have gotten exponentially heavier in the past few minutes.

John groans sleepily. “Stay,” he mumbles, hand moving to Alex’s thigh to hold him in place. Alex smiles and settles back in.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and he almost falls asleep.

“Hey,” John says.

He turns his head and John is right there, freckly and cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. Alex kisses him before he can stop himself. It seems like the appropriate thing to do before it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t kiss John while they’re both drunk and he pulls back.

“Why’d you stop?” John says breathily, mouth slipping into something like a pout that Alex can’t resist, kissing him deeper this time. John groans in response.

“Are you sure?” he asks, even as John is pulling Alex down on top of him and moving his hips to fit the two men as tightly together as possible.

Alex really, really likes John, and it seems like he likes him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know nothing about war and this timeline/time period are incredibly vague, because i care only about turning this musical into a soap opera. sorry lmm.
> 
> this IS about eliza, i promise.


	3. i will gladly join the fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex is sure if he was less caffeinated he would have maybe acted like less of a dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more messing with musical and historical timeline for ~drama

The computers are off limits. Someone found spy software, so they’ve all been forced to abandon email and typing and all the tools that make their jobs even a little less easier.

Alex doesn’t mind. There were no computers in his house growing up and the trading company never kept electronic records, so he’s used to writing. He likes it, the way that his hand gets tired and the words manifest in front of him. It’s the only thing that’s ever quieted his brain, the act of physically sorting out his thoughts and exorcising them. It is difficult adding maps and diagrams to handwritten pages, he’ll admit. He also misses his blog. But there’s work to be done, and the general is relying on him now more than ever. Alex knows he’s Washington’s favorite: the most trusted and valuable aide. It’s not him being obnoxious or arrogant (both of which he knows he can be), it’s just true. He gets the most important assignments, unprecedented access, and authority to not just relay the general’s orders but to issue his own.

His friends don’t begrudge him his favored status, even if they make fun of him for his overblown cockiness in other matters, calling him “the little lion,” for his temper and ego and overlong, wild hair. But he hears one or two whispers, and knows there must be more, implying that Washington favors him professionally because he likes him personally. Lee makes a comment about him being a “daddy’s boy” that sets him off. Lafayette has to talk him down from challenging Lee to a physical fight. The implication is clear though, and it’s disconcertingly accurate. Washington’s team functions as a pseudo family. He likes the fraternal aspect of it - James never paid him any attention, except to call him a nerd or a pussy or to stare at him blankly when Alex said he was leaving for college in New York - immediately becoming close with Lafayette and Laurens and McHenry and the rest. But that makes Washington the de facto father, which makes Alex uncomfortable.

First of all, even if he calls himself an orphan, he already has a father, even if James Hamilton, Sr. doesn’t give a shit about him. If he’s dead, there’s less questions to answer, and he’s already gotten used to the pity inspired by a dead mother. He’s never learned to deal with the little lightbulb going off in people’s heads when they realize that his father’s a deadbeat.

Second, and more importantly, he can’t have people believing that he’s only gotten where he is because Washington has some kind of paternal attachment to him. He likes Washington, admires him, appreciates the chance to work with him. But when he heard the whispers, he knew he had to get rid of every shred of suspicion. Alex acts like kind of a dick to him, being overly formal and refusing to take compliments. It’s hard, especially when all he’s ever wanted to be recognized for his hard work and Washington really, truly does. But his stellar work remains, even if the extraneous praise doesn’t. It’s an easy choice.

He finishes his draft and takes it into John’s room to have him look it over, entering without knocking like he always does.

John looks up, startled. “I gotta go,” he says quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hangs up and tosses his phone away from him like something hot.

“You need to look at this before I give it to the General,” he says, flopping down beside him and dropping the pile of papers into his friend’s lap. “It’s a brief on the proposed movements and needed supplies for the next month. Sorry if I interrupted, but this is really important, you know it is, and I need to-”

John holds up a hand, cutting him off. “It’s fine,” he says. “Give me a few minutes.”

Alex leans back against the wall, tapping his fingers against his leg and already working through revisions in his head. After what feels like a suitable interval, he glances over to where John is reading.

“Are you done yet?”

“It’s 15 pages long,” John says testily, “give me a few minutes.”

He sighs, annoyed. “Fine, just hurry up. I need to get this turned in.”

John shoots him a dark glare.

Alex is sure if he was less caffeinated he would have maybe acted like less of a dick. Tact, they keep calling it. He tries some small talk to lighten the mood, a tip often suggested by his old friend Burr.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Shut up and let me read.”

“I was just trying to pass the time with a little friendly small talk.”

“If you keep friendly small talking at me, I can’t read as quickly, and you’ll have to wait longer.”

“Fine, sorry,” Alex says crossly. “I didn’t know you couldn’t read and talk at the same time.”

John hisses something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “patronizing asshole.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” John says. “To answer your question, I was on the phone with my father.”

“Oh.” Alex is always a little uncomfortable when conversation turns to family. He doesn’t have the vocabulary for it. “How is he?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to talk about my dickhead father.”

“Fine by me,” Alex surrenders. John goes back to reading.

Alex hasn’t heard from his father in a while. It’s been somewhere around seven months (and two weeks, and four days) since he’s responded to one of his weekly emails. Maybe he has an email from him that he hasn’t been able to see with the computers down. What if he thinks Alex is ignoring him?

John hates his father, and it sounds like the feeling is at least partially mutual, yet he talks to him almost every night. He starts to get twitchy again. He wonders if there’s a way he can get extra funding for new computers in his next request to Congress.

“What does your father have to say about your sexuality?” he says before his brain can catch up and muzzle him.

John looks up, startled. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just curious. I know about his issues with the interracial regiments so it stands to reason that he wouldn’t love having a queer son.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he says stiffly.

“Sorry,” Alex says softly. John has never said the “q” or “g” or “b” words out loud, and Alex knows it’s not right to push him when he’s not sure how he identifies. “I know it’s probably hard, I don’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine, Alex. He doesn’t even know, anyway.”

“What? Why not?” Alex has been comfortably bi as long as he can remember, and while he understands why John wouldn’t be out to his family on an intellectual level, it doesn’t jibe with the passionate way John broadcasts and defends his other beliefs.

“Because telling him would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“You can’t put off that conversation forever. Don’t you want to get married or at least date someone long term someday?”

“Who says he ever has to find out? I’m not really planning on ever bringing home another man for Christmas.”

“Your father needs to accept you for who you are,” Alex says, beginning to work himself into a rant. “You can’t live your whole life hiding because of his idiotic homophobia.”

John glowers at him. “You need to fucking chill. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal! I’m upset that my...” Alex pauses, struggling for the right word. They’ve never actually talked about what it is that they do. He’s never pushed John on it, knowing how uncomfortable it makes him. And, honestly, they don’t have a lot of downtime and it’s often better spent making out. “My friend is planning on hiding his sexuality for his entire life because he’s scared of his father’s reaction. It’s the 21st century! You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s my choice, Alex, it has nothing to do with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“My choice to not share certain details of my life with my family is mine alone and has nothing to do with you. I don’t understand what’s unclear about that.”

“You can’t just not share such important parts of yourself with people.”

“You are such a hypocrite.”

“Me? How am I the hypocrite in this situation?”

“Seriously, Alex?” John says angrily. “What was your mom’s name?”

The question has its intended effect, hitting him square in the gut. “That’s not the same thing and you know it,” Alex hisses through clenched teeth.

“It’s personal information you don’t share!”

“Stop acting like you don’t know why this is different.”

“It’s not!” John yells wildly.

“It is!” Alex shouts back. “For the past two months, you and I have been hooking up and the whole time you’re not out to your family? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Why do you even care?”

“Stop playing fucking dumb!”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. You know why I’m mad. I’ve been letting you use me, apparently, for sex for months while you have no intention of ever acknowledging it outside of this room.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I can’t believe that you’re so self centered that you’re upset that I don’t want to come out to my homophobic family because it means you and I will never get to be happily gay married some day? You and I are friends, and we fool around sometimes, but you surely didn’t think this was actually going anywhere? I can’t think of anything I said that could have given you that idea.”

“Fuck you,” Alex says, hurt and furious.

“You are so selfish it’s unbelievable,” John bites. “You take everything you want, make decisions unilaterally, no matter how the rest of us feel about it.”

“How am I supposed to know? You don’t say anything! I didn’t push you on it, because you’re clearly uncomfortable with your sexuality-”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, you fucking know it all.”

“- and I didn’t want to push it. You’re the one always going on about how actions speak louder than words, so I thought we didn’t need to talk about it. To define it. But it meant something to me and I know it meant something to you, too.”

John’s eyes are wide and terrified. His fists open and close repeatedly for a few seconds. Then something in him shuts off and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Alex,” he says coldly. “Sounds like you’ve been reading a little too much into things and are projecting your weird abandonment issues on me. You need to back the fuck off.”

The roaring in Alex’s ears reaches a new fever pitch, his heart beating fast, his head spinning, all stopping abruptly when he punches John square in the jaw.

He looks at him, disbelieving, rubbing his chin where Alex’s fist slammed into it. Then he takes a swing, hitting Alex on the ear and sending him sideways into his desk.

Alex throws himself at John, tackling him down to the floor and punching him in the stomach before John grabs him by the shirt and slams him into the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. He punches John again, this time getting him full in the face. John responds with a jab that almost certainly splits his lip.

The rest of it is a blur.

Suddenly Mulligan is yanking him off John, arms wrapped around him and pinning them to his sides. Lafayette has John against the wall, holding him firmly by the shoulders as the smaller man tries to push him off.

It’s chaos. Alex and John are both crying even as they hurl insults at each other, scream at their friends to let them go, and insist that they’re fine, I’m fine, he fucking started it, just let me go, let me hit him one more time, you don’t know what that motherfucker said to me, let me at him again, he fucking deserves it.

Herc lifts a struggling Alex bodily off the ground and starts dragging him, feet dangling, towards the door.

“Yeah, get the bastard out of here,” John spits nastily.

“FUCK YOU, JOHN!” Alex screams back at him. “You fucking coward!”

Hercules drags Alex into the hallway and drops him in his own room. He immediately gets up off the floor and attempts to escape, only to be blocked by Hercules’s massive arm.

“Sit the fuck down, Ham,” he says firmly. “It’s over.”

Alex sullenly allows himself to be deposited in his desk chair, where he stares at the floor, furious and unseeing.

Hercules grabs him by the jaw and examines his face carefully. Alex hisses when one of his thumbs presses down on sore spot.

“You’re going to have a huge bruise tomorrow, but I don’t think anything’s broken,” Herc says thoughtfully. “Pity, we could have gotten you a nose job.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters and squirms away from his grip.

His friend rolls his eyes. “Don’t move out of this chair. I’ll get a towel.”

Alex closes his eyes and tips his head back, struggling to catch his breath as Hercules gently cleans him up. His ribs hurt, badly, and he remembers John slamming him onto the ground after one of the initial punches.

“Do you want to talk about why I just had to pull you off Laurens?”

He shakes his head, frowning, then winces when a fresh shock of pain comes from what is apparently a split lip. “Not particularly,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t really mean that as a suggestion.”

“We got in a fight, that’s all. He was being a dick.”

“Ham, I’ve watched you fight a lot of people in the time we’ve known each other, and I’ve never once seen you lose control like that. Especially not with someone as close to you as him. Did something happen with whatever you two have going on?”

He sighs and opens his eyes. His friend has his big brother face on.

“It was about nothing, and then it wasn’t,” he says. “It ended with him basically saying that I’m crazy for thinking that we had anything beyond a strictly platonic sexual relationship.”

“I see. And that upset you?”

“Yes, Hercules, that upset me,” he snaps. “Clearly.”

“Why?”

“Why? Are you kidding me?”

Herc flicks him on the forehead. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m being a friend here.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, man. Why were you so upset?”

“Because it was more than what he was trying to make it out to be. It wasn’t only us hooking up. I like him and I know he likes me too.”

“Has he ever said so?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“Have you ever told him?”

“No, not explicitly,” he admits.

“I see.”

“It didn’t need to be said.”

Hercules bursts out laughing. “That’s the only time I’ve ever heard you say that. Will you do it again? I want to record it.”

Alex scowls. “I didn’t think I needed to ask! It was obvious, I just knew.”

“Alex, you don’t get to decide how someone ‘obviously’ feels based on your observations. You’re smart, but you’re not psychic.”

“I’m not stupid. And I’m not wrong.”

He sighs. “I don’t think that you are. But feelings are hard, and you should have told Laurens that you felt something for him before getting mad that he didn’t seem to know that.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay,” Hercules says easily. “What do you want to do? Because whatever it is, we’re doing it together.”

“I’m trying to decide whether I want to hit John again or make out with him.”

“You can’t do either of those things, try again.”

Alex smiles despite himself. “Can I get drunk and hit someone else?”

“Hmm.” Hercules makes a show of pondering, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You can get drunk and attempt to hit a punching bag with those bruised knuckles of yours.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs and they shake on it.

They get drunk on shitty beer and Alex wears himself out after two minutes with the punching bag. He falls asleep, too exhausted to think, on the couch in Herc’s room. It feels pleasantly like the old days, when it was the two of them against the world.

\---------

The next week, they have a surprise night off. Washington is spending it with his wife, leaving the aides-de-camp with unexpected free time.

Alex’s plans to spend it sulking and writing are interrupted by Lafayette, who demands that he comes out with the rest to their favorite old bar.

“Hey,” he says, sprawled on the couch while Alex searches for his wallet. “You must promise me you will not fight with Laurens again tonight.”

“He’s coming?”

“Obviously he is coming, we are all going. Most of the others do not know or at least pretend they do not know about you two and your little fight, and do not care to choose sides.”

“Why would I fight him? He hasn’t spoken to me in a week.”

“You have not spoken to him either.”

“Well, the last time we talked he told me I was a stalker freak that injected made up feelings into what was clearly just bros being dudes and sucking each others dicks sometimes, so I don’t really see what’s left to say.”

His friend sighs deeply. “Forget about it for one night, please. You cannot keep sulking here, it is not good for you.”

“What kind of bullshit is this?” Alex mutters under his breath as he shrugs into his jacket. “I’ll fight whoever I want.”

“Yes, Alexander,” Lafayette says exasperatedly. “We know you will fight whoever you want. But not tonight.”

Alex sighs. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Not yet.” Lafayette, much taller, is blocking the doorway. “Do you promise no fighting?”

“With anyone or with John? I can promise not to fight him but who knows who we might run into.”

Lafayette laughs and drops his Very Serious face. “I would prefer no one but I will settle for just him. Let’s go.”

Alex and Lafayette get there first, and shove a few tables together while Herc arrives with the rest of the group and head straight to the bar. They bring over a tray with a few pitchers and a round of shots (first round for soldiers is free). The men each grab a glass and raise them with a quick and customary “to freedom!” before drinking.

This bar was one of his first real homes in New York. It’s where he hung out with Burr, who was for better or worse his first real friend here, where he met Hercules, where he used to get drunk and yell about politics with strangers. It’s also where he met most of the other pretty young things with whom he made some fond memories. It’s a firmly patriotic establishment, attracting the smart, idealistic types that were irresistible to him, and were easy targets for a certain flirty young revolutionary.

Months of being cooped up in an office has taken his toll. His brain is full of half-formed battle plans and paragraphs and percentages and he’s still furious with John. He’s wound tight with that nervous energy that makes his skin feel raw and his fingers twitch, and wants to get drunk and push the hurricane in his head aside for a night. And well, he’s not just a student and a blogger anymore. He’s a certified war hero, General Washington’s right hand man, and a newly published op-ed writer. He’s not above using his elevated status to get laid.

He starts scanning the room while finishing his first beer, the alcohol not yet enough to keep his leg from bouncing under the table until Hercules kicks him and he stops. There’s an interesting looking blonde across the room, and he cranes his neck to get a better view, but all he can see is the TV where Thomas Paine is talking about something. Someone returns to their seat and blocks his view. He leans sideways in his chair to get a better look and bumps into someone on his right.

“Sorry,” he apologizes absentmindedly.

“Don’t worry, you’re not missing much.”

He looks at his neighbor, who turns out to be a startlingly pretty girl about his own age.

“I’m not? Are you not a fan of Mr. Paine’s ‘Common Sense?’” he asks, slipping into what he knows is a winningly charming smile.

She shrugs. “I was reading Thomas Paine’s blog the other day, and I have to say, I’m disappointed by the complete lack of any female contributors. What do you think about the total lack of gender equity in the political discourse?”

He raises an eyebrow, impressed. “It’s bullshit, of course.”

“Oh, of course?” She’s smiling, but it’s sharp; like the ocean at the bottom of a cliff on a hot summer’s day, ringed by rocks but pulling you in anyway.

“Of course,” he repeats, shifting in his chair to face her more fully. “How are we, as a nation, going to challenge Britain’s disrespect for our rights as equal citizens when we deny them to our own? I mean-”

Laurens cuts him off. “Yes, I agree. The lack of acknowledgment of the women leading this thing is appalling. Now please, don’t set Alex off. We’re trying to enjoy ourselves tonight, right?”

“Fine, fine.” Alex surrenders, shooting John a glare that isn’t only because of the interruption. He pretends not to see. Typical.

He turns back to his distraction. “So, small talk. How are you finding the evening?”

“Hmm,” she muses with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Adequate, I’d say.”

“Adequate? Is this beautiful, sticky-floored bar not to your satisfactions?” Alex gains speed with every word, smile growing. She’s giving him a slightly skeptical, challenging look as if waiting to see what he does next. He likes it. He’s always leapt at the chance to show off. “You strike me as a woman who’s never been satisfied.”

She takes a sip of her drink primly but there’s a teasing heat in her voice. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, you forget yourself.”

He laughs and leans in closer. “You’re like me, I’m never satisfied.”

“Is that right?” She looks up at him, still with that challenge written all over her face. Impress me, it says. Prove yourself worthy of this five minute conversation.

“I’ve never been satisfied,” he says, feeling almost like he’s confessing something. She doesn’t strike him as someone he could lie to.

She gives him another one of those long, piercing looks and seems to come to a decision. “My name is Angelica Schuyler,” she says, extending a hand.

“Alexander Hamilton.” He shakes her hand, taking the opportunity to run his thumb experimentally along the underside of her wrist and grins when she shivers slightly.

“Where’s your family from?” she says, shrugging it off.

He takes a gulp of his drink and shrugs. “Unimportant. There’s a million things I haven’t done. For example, I’ve never gotten drunk on a night off with one Angelica Schuyler.”

She’s giving him a look that is worryingly insightful, like she can see inside his head, but she blinks and is suddenly all flirty eyes again. “That’s very presumptive of you.”

“But am I wrong?”

“No,” she laughs. “You’re not. I’ll take another whiskey sour.”

“Just you wait.”

When he comes back to the table, Angelica and her friends have fully joined his table. She’s leaning back in her seat, one long leg crossed over the other, and definitely catches him looking when accepting her drink.

“Thanks. Are you the guy that fought with Samuel Seabury in the commons a few months ago?”

He laughs, surprised. “It was a debate, not a fight.”

“I knew you looked familiar! God, that was incredible. What a tool.”

“Were you a student at Kings? I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Yeah, I’m about to graduate. Law school next.”

The group next to them erupts in raucous cheers, and they are startled out of their conversation as Herc leans against Alex, laughing loudly.

“Wonder what we missed,” Angelica says wryly. He likes the way she says “we.”

“Whew, sorry, man,” Hercules gasps, sitting back up. “And you as well,” he says, nodding at Angelica. “I’m Hercules Mulligan.”

She smiles and shakes his hand. “Angelica Schuyler.”

“Oh, no shit! As in ‘Philip Schuyler?’” She nods. “No way! I served with your dad in the state militia back in the day. Great guy. Tell him I said hi.”

“Who’s your dad?” Alex can’t stop himself from being annoyed as usual when he doesn’t know what other people are talking about.

“Philip Schuyler, formal general and current senator,” she explains a bit wearily, as if she’s done it a thousand times before.

"He taught me how to shoot with both hands at the same time,” Hercules adds enthusiastically. “Great guy. Practically New York royalty.”

Angelica frowns slightly. “He’s not-”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Alex jumps in. “Laf over here is a real life French Marquis, right Gilbert?”

The French noble in question rolls his eyes. “You do not need to tell everyone, Alexander, it is unimportant.”

"Is Laf short for ‘Lafayette?’” Angelica asks. “I just studied abroad in France and did hiking through Auvergne on our way to the coast. It’s a beautiful area.”

“My home is indeed very beautiful,” Lafayette says with a hint of pride. “I am glad that you took the time to see it, it is often overlooked.”

Alex watches as Angelica’s razor sharp eyes size his friend up immediately. “You miss it,” she observes gently.

“I do, sometimes,” he says, his tone suddenly serious in a way it rarely is, and never in mixed company. “I miss my family and the countryside and the people in it. But I do not regret coming here.”

“For the revolution?”

“Ah, for the revolution,” he raises his glass and takes a drink. “There is no higher cause than freedom, not even the chance to piss off the British.”

“It’s very interesting” - Alex can already tell that’s code for “explain to me why the fuck” - “that a French noble has become one of America’s foremost revolutionaries while your country still has a king and marquis’s,” Angelica says.

Lafayette doesn’t seem offended. “France is not ready. I will spend my entire life helping her get there if that’s what it takes. But America’s moment is now, I could not miss it.”

“None of us have missed anything yet,” Alex cuts back in. “The war’s barely begun! We haven’t even gotten a chance to really take the British on face to face.”

Laf rolls his eyes again. “My friend, there will be time.”

“I have to say I agree,” Angelica says. “The longer the British stay here the more opportunity they get to drag this out and convince people on the fence that they’d be better off reverting to how things were.”

“I know!” Alex exclaims. “We need bold action to show the people that we are actually capable of winning this thing, and that the sacrifices we’re all making are for a higher purpose.”

“Yes, exactly,” Angelica agrees. “The people are desperate for a sign that something is happening and that they’ve put their faith in people that deserve it.”

Angelica launches into a long tirade about morale and media coverage that is objectively brilliant. He tells Angelica about the time he and John caught a spy. It’s one of his better stories, and she looks suitably impressed if not outright fawning the way most girls who hear it do. He likes her, she’s smart and scarily hot and fascinating, but he keeps getting distracted by John pointedly ignoring him.

“Hey, Laurens,” he calls, in a tone he knows is obnoxious, “when did we catch that spy? October or November?”

He barely looks at him. “You know it was in November,” he answers coolly, before turning back to the opposite side of the table.

Alex grinds his teeth and finishes his drink. He turns back to Angelica. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks.

She raises her eyebrows in that impossibly sexy, kind of smug way, that screams know it all. He hates how much he likes it. “I do.”

He grins, stands up, and helps her into her jacket. As he follows Angelica out, John makes a show of rolling his eyes. Alex grits his teeth, forcing himself not to reply.

As soon as they get outside, he pushes Angelica against the wall and kisses her. She responds enthusiastically, hooking a finger in his belt loop and tugging him closer. John Laurens and his smug fucking face are immediately forgotten. As with their conversation, she lets him lead, sizing him up. He can practically feel the gears in her head stutter and stall when she decides that he makes the grade. He focuses all of his attention and pent up energy on her, reducing his whole world to sliding his hand up the back of her shirt and spreading his fingers over her side, letting them rest in the notches between her ribs. She moves her hips against is in a way that knocks the air out of his lungs so quickly he has to rip his mouth from hers to catch his breath.

She’s breathing heavily as well, but focuses more quickly than he does. “Cab.”

“Cab,” he repeats. “Brilliant.”

He hails one miraculously quickly. Probably the uniform.

“Where to?”

“Yours,” Angelica says quickly. “My sisters are at home.”

Alex gives the cabbie the cross streets of where they’ve set up camp, considering idly what the concept of what sisters might mean. Multiple Angelicas? This train of thought is abruptly cut off by the real Angelica’s hand resting somewhere it probably shouldn't in the back of a cab, but he can’t find a compelling reason to stop her.

\---------

She wakes him up in the middle of the night for another round.

“You were right,” she says as she moves on top of him.

“About what?” he manages to gasp out as her nails scrape down his chest.

“About this,” she breathes, grinding down. “I can never be satisfied.”

He comes immediately and harder than he ever has in his life.


	4. something they can never take away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get bad in the summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> typical vague timeline and geography. also pain.

Three months later, Alex and Angelica’s liaisons stop when he moves with General Washington to Pennsylvania. He sends her flirty texts and they share a few heated late night phone calls before he disappears from her life. She sees him on the news, in the background while Washington is speaking, and reads his impassioned tweets and blog posts, but otherwise doesn’t hear from him.

\---------

Things get bad in the summer.

Really bad.

Congress is driven out of their seat and scattered. The British are stalking the individual members, tapping their phones, harassing their families. There’s nowhere safe for them to meet when any room with more than two of the delegates in it becomes a prime target for an assassination attempt. Without Congress in session, the army has nowhere to turn for more funding or supplies. Their makeshift camp in Valley Forge grows more ragged and hungry by the day. They have no money and the civilians are weary and struggling to get by with their own food and shelter. The British clearly know the situation and refuse to engage for months, just waiting for them to starve, die, or surrender. It’s working. They’ve taken up residence in an abandoned industrial park, camping in warehouses and abandoned semi trucks. It gets hot and they’re left to swelter in the sun.

Hot, starving, and frustrated, the soldiers get angrier by the day. Someone finds a book on duels of the 18th century and the practice spreads like wildfire. Soon, the pettiest disputes - someone taking a too big piece of bread, looking too long at a photo of someone’s wife, calling someone the wrong name - are cause to literally fucking shoot someone. The vast majority never make it to the parking lot they designate the dueling ground, but a handful do, and there are more than a few secret bullet wounds bandaged under their tattered uniforms.

Alex and John find their way back to each other. Sitting side by side every day, sharing a tent, and caring for as much as each other as they do; even still smarting from their blow up, they need each other. The stresses of the battlefield are too much to bear alone, and they start growing closer, looking for each other at the end of every day and keeping each other company during long days of work. Neither of them apologize for the things they said - it’s hard to say sorry when every horrible word was true, and they're both too proud, too stubborn - but they start smiling at each other again. It’s enough.

Then they meet the British at Monmouth. When Washington leads reinforcements to where Charles Lee is supposed to be leading a charge, his men are in full blown retreat. He’s never seen the general so angry. He turns it into a righteous fury, a rousing passion, and with a shout and a raised arm has them turning around and standing their ground. Alex was in such total awe that when Washington called his name he thought for a moment his dream of taking command was coming true. Instead, he was sent to dispatch Lafayette.

Alex was forced to stay with the general on the top of the hill and watch the brutality below. John and Lafayette make it out alive, thankfully, though the shaken Frenchman admits he has no idea how John did, throwing himself into the fray as entirely as he did.

He repeats this to John later, as they’re laying side by side in their tent. “I don’t know how you made it out of there without getting shot.”

“I wouldn’t have minded today,” John says quietly. He shifts onto his side and looks at Alex intently. “Sometimes, I want to die.”

Alex reaches for his hand and grips it tightly.

He leans forward and kisses Alex deeply, with none of the hesitation that wracked him before. The breath leaves Alex’s chest in a gasp as John rolls on top of him, lips insistent and skin hot against his.

Alex thought that this time around things might be different, but he wasn’t prepared to like it. They talk about things now, stilted and slow at first, then endlessly all night until they’re both hoarse. Even though John says out loud what his eyes have always screamed, it doesn’t make a difference. It’s a testament to how close they are that even giving voice to all those deep seated fears and feelings is no surprise to either of them. Alex knows John’s resentment for his father and fascination with martyrdom like he knows his freckles and the sound of his voice. John knew Alex’s drive came from fear and pain long before he knew the specifics. From day one, they’ve seen each other entirely.

The next morning comes too soon. They go up to the general’s floor and start working through casualty lists, reports of those taken prisoner, and the reaction from the public. It’s grim, but they’re managing.

Then Charles Lee goes on television and criticizes General Washington.

“Criticizes” isn’t how Alex puts it when he bursts, unannounced and uninvited, into Washington’s office and yells “CHARLES FUCKING LEE IS TALKING SHIT ABOUT YOU ON TV!”

The general looks at him with tired eyes. “What?”

“Charles Lee is on TV right now saying all kinds of bullshit about how yesterday was your fault and that he was fired because he said it was a bad idea in the first place WHICH HE NEVER DID AND IT WASN’T A BAD PLAN HE JUST FUCKED IT UP and he said you never should have been in charge in the first place that FUCKING disloyal sack of shit!”

Washington drops his pen and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Hamilton, relax. He’s being court martialed, the jury will handle it.”

“He can’t just lie in the press like that! We can do a release or someone can go on the evening news and make a statement. We need to keep the hearts and minds, we can’t have Lee ruining that!” The sight of Washington’s stony face frustrates him and his voice rises to near hysteria. “Sir,” he adds as an afterthought.

“No, Hamilton,” Washington says, a note of warning creeping into his voice. “We have a war to fight, let’s move along. We will not engage in petty internal fighting in public.”

“But sir! He’s lying! He can’t get away with this.”

“He won’t, like I said, he’s being court martialed,” Washington says firmly.

“But-”

“Enough, Hamilton,” the general snaps. “Let it go. Do not speak to the press. Don’t think I don’t know about your blog, either. Let it go. That’s an order.”

Alex grinds his teeth and forces himself to nod. “Yes, sir,” he says stiffly and lets himself out, closing the door behind him with something just this side of a slam.

John is watching the replay of the interview, work abandoned, cheeks blazing with heat and fists balled tightly. “Can you believe this asshole?” he says.

Alex blows past him and leaves the office entirely, feet taking him all the way outside.

“Yo, man, what’s going on?” John says behind him. “What is Washington gonna do?”

“Nothing, he’s not gonna do shit,” Alex hisses. “And Lee is just gonna keep trashing him and getting away with it while the courts drag their heels on his stupid ass court martial.”

“That’s bullshit!” John says, fury matching Alex’s instantly. “Someone’s gotta hold him to it!”

“He ORDERED me not to, John,” Alex says, pacing back and forth. “I can’t disobey a direct order.”

“Fuck it. I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I’m challenging that fucker to a duel before he can leave New Jersey and run back to his plantation. He thinks he’s big on TV, let’s see how quick he retracts it and apologizes. I bet before we get to ‘5.’ You’ll be my second, right? You’re the closest friend I’ve got, Alex,” John says, his angry eyes softening to something more tender.

He nods and puts his hand on the back of John’s neck, pulling him close and letting their foreheads rest against each others.

“Alex,” he says quietly, the unspoken hanging in the air.

“John,” he answers. “Don’t throw away your shot.”

He doesn’t. Even after Aaron fucking Burr comes charging in from New York to play second for that pile of shit excuse for a human, John refuses to back down and takes Lee all the way to the dueling field.

John stands tall, and he looks composed but Alex can still feel his lips pushing desperately against his in their tent that morning. Word had spread quickly, and dozens of their fellow soldiers have circled around them and watch with baited breath.

He shoots Lee in the side, looking calm and furious, like an avenging angel. Alex loves him so much in that moment he can hardly stand it.

Lee yields, reluctantly. Alex has to give him credit for attempting to keep fighting with a bullet in him.

Then Washington shows up. Who tipped him off, he'll never know. John's play at divine justice suddenly pales in comparison to the righteous fury the general storms in with.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, carefully controlled temper blown. The onlookers scatter. He looks to where Burr is holding up one side of the still indignant Lee. "Burr, get a medic for the general."

"Yes, sir," Burr says and leans him onto the soldier at Lee's other side and hurries away.

"Lee, I know we've had our differences, but these young men don't speak for me." Washington glares at John and Alex, who have started to step away slowly and freeze immediately in their tracks. He gives Alex a pointed look before turning back to Lee. "Thank you for your service. The medics will take care of you, let me know if you need anything and I'll see to it personally."

Lee limps away and Washington turns back to them.

"Laurens," he says icily, "go back to your tent. I'll speak with you later."

"Yes, sir," he answers, still managing to keep an edge of defiance.

Washington looks like he wants to say something else, knock the smug look and over confidence out of him, but he nods and dismisses him.

"Hamilton, with me." He turns and walks back towards camp without another word.

Alex follows automatically, head whirling. The air around them seems to shimmer menacingly and his stomach churns with nervous anticipation. It's bad, whatever's about to happen. Alex's ears are ringing slightly as one doomsday scenario after another starts tumbling through his head. Can Washington have him deported? Will he have to go back to Nevis? He can't go back, he can't, he can't go back there to his destroyed town with nothing left but his mother's grave and his distant brother. Will he have to stay here, dishonorably discharged, his future destroyed forever? What is he going to do? The army was his ticket to a life after the war, he can't have that taken away from him, he just can't. Will he fire him? Yell at him? Send him away? 

They arrive at Washington's tent, the older man turning towards him with that same stoic face that only ratchets up Alex's anxiety further. Would he just get on with it?

"Son-"

"Don't call me son," Alex cuts him off, putting a blowtorch to the thin ice he's already dancing on. He can't help it, it's like a reflex.

"-this war is hard enough without infighting," he says, giving no indication he heard him.

"Lee called you out! We called his bluff."

"You solved nothing. You aggravated the Southern faction. You disrespected another officer."

Washington's returned to his forced calm and it's driving Alex fucking crazy. The adrenaline from watching John stare death in the face and win - God, he won, thank God, how did he do that? - is pumping through his veins. He's still spoiling for a fight - John may have been satisfied after shooting that sack of shit in the side, but Alex, confined to the sidelines, never got his blows in.

"You're absolutely right, I did," he says recklessly. When Washington's face doesn't move a muscle, he tries again. "John should have shot him in the mouth."

The general looks more exasperated than angry. "Son-"

"I'm not your son," Alex says loudly, dangerously close to a yell.

This time he reacts. "Watch your tone," he warns, still with that tight calm. "I am not a maiden in need of defending. Certainly not by my twenty year old aides."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You are supposed to do nothing, like I told you to."

"These assholes take your name and rake it through the mud!" Alex says. "They can't get away with it!"

"My name's been through a lot, I can take it."

"Well, I don't have your name," Alex seethes. "Or titles, or land, or wealth. The work we're doing here is all I have. It's my only shot to make something of myself because I'm stuck being your _secretary_ ," he says venomously. "If you would just give me a command-"

"No."

He doesn't even consider it, doesn't even pretend to think it over. Doesn't even consider that Alex might be good for something more than writing his correspondence.

And he has the nerve to look bored while saying it, like talking about Alex's future, his whole life, all he's ever wanted is less interesting than taking a nap or the silence.

Alex loses it.

"Why the fuck not?!" he screams. "Why not? Everyone else can see that I'm ready for command and you know it too. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you so insistent on holding me back?"

"Son-"

"CALL ME SON ONE MORE TIME!"

"Hamilton, that's enough," Washington says, finally raising his voice. "You have thirty seconds to calm down."

Alex glares at him, but something in the back of his mind latches onto the number and starts counting backward, _30, 29, 28..._

His breathing slows, his shoulders drop, and his nails stop biting into the palms of his hands. By the time he gets to 0 he's calmed down enough to realize that he just screamed in General Washington's face after disobeying direct orders and helping his friend shoot another general.

Fuck.

"Sit down," Washington orders.

He obeys without thinking, before realizing that he had a legitimate point to make and still let Washington take control of him. That familiar resentment starts burning again.

"I'm not going to fire you. I'm not going to fight with you. You are going to stop behaving like someone less intelligent than you are," Washington says.

"Sir-"

"Shut up, Alexander," he snaps. "You're not stupid enough to think that I'm not furious with you. That's the problem. You're too smart for any of this: the dueling, the secrecy, trying to get me to fire you. It's beneath you."

It's not, Alex thinks. It's exactly what someone would expect from someone raised in an island slum.

"I wish I could fire you, God knows you deserve it. You and Laurens both. But I can't. Laurens may hate his father, but he's the only reason John still has a position. And you." Washington looks at him, not unkindly but with a frankness he rarely allows himself. "You should be fired. But you also should be given a command. You, insufferable, insubordinate, idiot young man that you are, are exactly right. You're more than qualified to lead your own men. But I can't do that either. I need you too much."

Alex shifts in his chair. It's all he's ever wanted, to be seen as valuable and necessary and important, to be recognized for his abilities. The moment feels less triumphant than he'd imagined.

"So you get to stay," Washington sighs. "You'll receive disciplinary action, I haven't decided which yet, but you're staying. Don't act like you'll quit, we both know you're full of shit and have nowhere else to go. You want to be here just enough that it outweighs the part of you that wants to leave."

"I don't want special treatment," Alex says. "I've never wanted it. That's why I got so mad when..." He can't finish the sentence, choking on his own abandonment issues and resentment and longing and everything else he tries to ignore.

Washington nods. "I don't want to treat you differently. I hate being a hypocrite. How can I stand for equality under the law when any other soldier who pulled the shit you did today would be out on the spot? I don't want to give you special treatment, but you are special. We need you alive when this war is over, Hamilton, I've told you before and I'll tell you again. You and I are walking on untrodden ground. What we do here, what we do after the war, is history. Do you want to be around to create a country from scratch or do you want to be shot by some asshole before you turn 25?"

Alex falls silent, the weight of Washington's words sitting heavily in his chest. The general seems to understand, and dismisses him. He sleeps deeper that night than he has in a while, and in his dreams he flies higher than he ever knew possible, hands outstretched towards the sun.

\----------

Alex is poring over the charter for the original Bank of England when his phone buzzes. He grabs it and answers it without looking up from his work.

“Yeah?”

“John?” a woman asks.

Alex looks at his phone, confused. He grabbed John’s by accident.

“Sorry, no, this is Alex. John’s in the bathroom. I’ll have him call you back?”

“Sure,” she says. “Tell him I called.”

“Got it,” Alex says, looking for a scrap of paper he hasn’t already scribbled all over. “What’s your name? And do you have a number for him to reach you at?”

The woman laughs. “You’re funny. Tell him to call his wife back when he gets a chance. Thanks!” She hangs up.

John comes back into the room in a cloud of steam a few minutes later to find Alex still frozen in shock.

“You okay, man?”

“You’re married?” Alex says, strangled.

“Shit.”

“Married?”

“Alex, please, calm down, it’s okay.”

Alex bolts, fleeing to his room and throwing himself onto his bed, struggling to control his breathing.

Married. Call his wife back? Marriedwife _married_ you’refunny MARRIED weddingwiferingmarried

John comes bursting in less than a minute later, hair still dripping. “Alex, talk to me, please.”

“I can’t right now.”

“Please.”

Alex shakes his head, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He feels the bed dip as John sits down next to him.

It's over. He knows that immediately. This is the end of them, not forever, but the end of _AlexandJohn_. He knows he'll remember this moment, when he realized that the first love of his life was finished. Every sense is sharpened, the moment hanging in perfect clarity.

Someone closes a door in the hall. It sounds like a coffin lid.

He doesn’t feel angry, strangely. All the times he’s fought with John, only a handful about their relationship and dozens about strategy or policy or political theory, he’s been angry. He knows what that feels like. This is different. He feels tired and heavy, like some invisible weight has been dropped on him.

He sits up, cautiously. John looks green and scared and vulnerable. He immediately grabs his hand.

“So. Married,” he begins with forced calm. “For how long?”

“Two years,” John says warily. “What’s wrong with you?”

Alex ignores him and focuses on the task at hand. “How did you meet her?”

“I met her at boarding school. Alex, we don’t have to do this.”

“When did you decide to get married?”

John mumbles something intelligible.

“Sorry?”

“When she got pregnant,” he confesses.

Alex flops back down, his bones gone to jelly. He hears pounding in his ears.

“Alex. Alex!”

He raises a finger and takes a deep breath, composing himself. He sits back up.

“Pregnant,” he repeats. “So you have a kid?” His voice betrays him, breaking on the last word.

He nods, skin gone ashen. “A girl. Frances. She’s one and a half.”

“A year and a half. You’ve been here for her entire life,” Alex says, carefully nonjudgemental, though he knows John knows him well enough to hear what goes unsaid.

John’s mouth twists and he looks down. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I haven’t been the best father. I didn’t know how to deal with it. She moved here for college and I bumped into her and we started kind of hanging out. Then she got pregnant and there wasn’t anything else I could do. I wasn’t going to leave her hanging and neither of us wanted her to get rid of it. My mother’s never been so happy as the day of the wedding,” he says bitterly. “She loves being a grandma. The kid’s really cute, they send me pictures all the time. They say she talks all the time.”

“Why?” Alex asks, unable to keep the emotion from his voice.

“I don’t know. That’s a lie, I do. I thought that that could be the end of it. I’m not like you, I don’t deal in absolutes and labels and words for everything. I knew I was different, even if I never said I was gay.” His voice cracks and distorts around the last word. “But I like Martha, I always have. She’s fun and pretty and I liked having someone around that made me feel normal. I figured I wasn’t living for too much else, maybe a wife and kid could do the trick.”

They fall back into silence.

“I’m going to say something horrible.”

John takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Would you ever leave her?” Alex hates himself for even asking, imagining some poor little girl with John’s smile and freckles growing up without a father like he did. He can’t help it.

“No.”

“Good, you shouldn’t,” he says firmly.

“Are you mad?”

“Yeah, honestly. I can’t believe you lied to me for so long.”

“I had to,” he pleads. “I knew that when you found out you would leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you, John. Everything else aside, you’re my best friend. We’ll always be in each others lives. I care about you, no matter what. And,” he says shakily, “I want so badly to be with you. But I won’t be the third person in your marriage. I don’t know how to do that and I don’t want to. I don’t know how to not have everything. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment.

“So this is it, I guess,” he says. “This is weird.”

“I’ll always love you,” John says quietly.

Alex takes a deep breath. “And I’ll always love you. I guess that’ll have to be enough.”

“Can we just-” John’s voice breaks. “One last night? Please?”

He nods and pulls him close. Their tears mingle on their cheeks.

They take their time, memorizing every inch of each other's skin, drawing each thrust out to the length of a deep breath, fighting release and the finality of it for as long as they physically can.

The morning still comes too soon.

\----------

Two weeks later, Laurens finally gets the okay to go back to South Carolina and present his plan for integrated units and hiring to the legislature. Lafayette helps him carry his things to the truck with a heavy heart. He’ll miss his friend, but he knows that a little distance will be the best thing for Laurens and Alexander to get over each other.

“Au revoir, my dear Laurens,” he says, pulling him into a tight hug. “Good luck with your proposal.”

“I’ll miss you, Laf.” He pulls back. “Promise you’ll take care of Alex for me?” John says it casually, but the dark circles under his eyes and the desperation pouring off of him say otherwise.

Lafayette nods reassuringly. “Of course. I will try to get him out of whatever trouble he finds himself in.”

“I mean it,” Laurens says with a smile. “He keeps saying that if I get to have a wife, he’s going to get himself one too.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. He even wrote me up a treatise on his ideal make and model. It’s nuts, I’ll send you a copy.”

Lafayette laughs, even as he thinks that Alexander doth protest way too fucking much.


	5. down for the count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ES: Are you going to show up outside my window with a boombox?
> 
> AH: Just you wait
> 
> AH: But you should probably keep an eye on your mailbox

Aaron Burr waits patiently outside Washington’s office. He doesn’t relish being back. He quit his post working for Washington after two weeks, irritated by the way he played favorites and the clear differences in their personalities. Since leaving, he’s worked closely with General Putnam, with whom he’s more like minded and who recognizes Aaron’s talent. He occasionally regrets giving up the opportunity to work at Washington’s side, but he enjoys where he’s at.

He’s also exhausted, and leans his head back against the wall for a nap. He can hear the faint sounds of someone pacing inside. The steady rhythm of it lulls him closer to actual sleep. Until the door slams open.

“Is that Aaron Burr?!”

He recognizes that voice.

“Hi, Hamilton,” he says, bracing himself for the oncoming verbal avalanche.

He met Hamilton four years ago, only finding out after the fact that it was his first day on campus and he was fresh off the boat from Saint Croix. He thought he could take him under his wing - he clearly needed it, with his sad puppy eyes and hair trigger temper - but Hamilton disabused him of that notion pretty quickly. Though their temperaments were opposite, the two spent many evenings in a bar - Aaron paying for the drinks - talking about politics and current events. It’s almost funny, thinking about his gut reaction to shelter Hamilton, when it was at their favorite bar that he was introduced to Mulligan and began his scheme for a student led militia that almost got him killed a time or two.

“Aaron Burr, sir!” Hamilton exclaims, still endlessly amused even four years later by the rhyme. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been well, and you?” He says, muffled into Hamilton’s shoulder as he pulls him into a tight hug.

“Better, seeing you again!” Hamilton pulls back and Aaron gets his first real look at him. He still wears his hair too long, but the uniform suits him. He remembers the shabby clothes he used to wear when they would hang out before the war with a pang of unsuspected nostalgia. His eyes are still shining and just the tiniest bit crazed, but they’re ringed by huge dark circles that he didn’t have before. “What are you doing in New Jersey? I thought you were crushing it in Quebec,” Hamilton says, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder.

“No, I’ve been in New York for a while with Putnam. It’s actually funny we haven’t run into each other with all the joint missions we’ve been running.”

Hamilton frowns. “Yeah, well, unfortunately I haven’t been seeing too much action.”

“Why?” Aaron asks. “You get hurt?”

“No,” Hamilton sighs. “I’ve been General Washington’s aide-de-camp.”

“Hamilton, that’s great,” Aaron says. “Congrats, man.”

“I guess,” he says sullenly.

“You guess?” Aaron feels a twinge of annoyance. He’s surprised it’s taken a full minute in Hamilton’s presence for it to start. “That’s the perfect position for you and such a great opportunity.”

Hamilton shrugs. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

“Bringing a message for the general.”

“Awesome! It really is great to see you again,” Hamilton says, too loud and too sincere as usual.

Aaron feels himself smiling back despite himself. “You too, Alex.”

“What are you doing later? The Daughters of the American Revolution - stupid name, I know - are throwing some ball thing later we’re all going to.”

“Who’s we?”

“All the guys. Me, Lafayette, Mulligan, everyone really. Except not Laurens, he’s down south.”

Aaron barely represses an eye roll. An evening with Hamilton and his even more obnoxious friends? “I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on, Burr, it’ll be fun,” Hamilton pleads. “I didn’t go last year, but I heard the drinks were strong and the girls were pretty. Just come with.”

“Fine, I’ll go.”

“Hell yeah! It’ll be great. Meet me in my room, it’s 2C, at 7:00 and we can go over together.” He gives him another broad, slightly manic smile and is gone.

\---------

Aaron makes it to Hamilton's room around when he and the other guys are already in pre-party mode, sharing drinks and messing around. He and Mulligan even make a nice show of getting along - for Hamilton's benefit - as long as the liquor is flowing. Hamilton gets a little caught up in playing DJ and has to change into his dress uniform in the two minutes before the boat across the river to Manhattan leaves. They end up arriving a little late, but he doesn’t mind, everything is in full swing. It feels nice; Aaron almost forgot what life before the war was like.  Hamilton is already fidgeting next to him, overwhelmed by the intensity of the room after weeks cooped up in Washington’s cold, spartan office. Girls and soldiers are everywhere, the former flitting around in every color and every fabric imaginable.

The pair grab glasses of punch and takes a long drink, fighting back a cough. The DAR don’t mess around, it’s at least 50% liquor. He looks around the room, scanning for anyone he knows, but everyone except Hamilton seems to have evaporated.

“Shall we?” he says. “You know, Burr, I know quite a few of the young women in attendance. I’d be happy to introduce you.”

“I’m sure you would, Hamilton, but I’ve done well with this crowd all on my own in the past.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Not all of us feel the need to broadcast our liaisons so publicly that Mrs. Washington names their feral tomcat after us.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I know everything, Hamilton.”

“Whatever,” he mutters, like a bratty child, into his drink.

Aaron sighs and scans the room, spotting a familiar trio across the room. “Look,” he nudges Hamilton. “The Schuyler sisters.”

“All of them?” He perks up and cranes his neck for a better look. “I only know Angelica, but a man hears things.”

He's sure he has. He heard rumors about Hamilton and Angelica a few years back. From the look on Hamilton's face, he'd guess that they're true.

“I know all three, our families ran in similar circles. Whatever you heard, the rumors are probably true,” he says. “You know, if you marry a sister, you’re rich.”

“Is it a question of ‘if,’ Burr, or ‘which one?’” Hamilton smirks and holds out his fist.

Aaron rolls his eyes but bumps his fist anyway.

They make their way over to the table where the girls are attracting the attention of most of the officers. The youngest one, Peggy, he points out to Hamilton, is polishing off a glass of some of the deadly punch and listening to a pair of lieutenants tell some dumb story with perfectly flirty posture and bored eyes. Eliza is helping another girl he doesn't recognize fix her bracelet. He hasn't seen her since that day a few years ago when Angelica yelled at him for hitting on her, he remembers with an amused smile.

Angelica herself, holding court as usual, looks beautiful and is talking rapidly as she hugs Hamilton hello. Aaron watches as Hamilton lets his hand linger a moment too long on the curve of her waist. The two share a knowing smile, falling off Hamilton's face instantly when he spots the enormous ring on Angelica's finger. 

He didn't know about the wedding, apparently. One of Aaron's old neighbors mentioned it when he stopped in for dinner a few months ago. Beautiful, brilliant Angelica Schuyler ran off with an older English businessman with a closet full of scandals and an overflowing bank account and got married in Vegas. Her family, including sweet, goes-to-church-every-Sunday Eliza, was surprisingly supportive, and Angelica was back in time for her law school classes on Monday.

“What do we have here?” Hamilton asks, that childish scowl creeping back onto his face. Aaron rolls his eyes and gives himself thirty seconds to interject before the younger man can cause a scene.

Angelica opens her mouth to respond but is distracted by Peggy leaning in to whisper something in her ear. Hamilton, fidgeting with pent up energy, grabs a new glass of punch, and downs half of it in a gulp.

“So, what else is new with you?”

"We've only been here for ten minutes, can you pause your freak out for at least another hour?" He looks at him critically. “Relax. Stop drinking so much and talk to literally any other girl here.”

“I’ve never freaked out a day in my life, Aaron Burr, sir.”

Aaron doesn't even bother responding to that nonsense and takes another long drink.

“Alex,” Angelica calls. He immediately snaps his head back to her. “I’m about to change your life.”

“By all means,” he says, stepping back over.

Eliza, who Aaron notices immediately is staring at Hamilton with wide, moony eyes, extends a hand. “Elizabeth Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alex takes it, mood recovering instantly. “Schuyler?”

“My sister,” Angelica says brightly. Hamilton glances at her for a second before turning his attention back entirely to Eliza. What a dick.

“Thank you for all your service,” she says sincerely.

“If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it.” Alex kisses her hand like some cheesy actor in a Lifetime movie.

It works, to Aaron's amazement, a flush rising in her cheeks and making her dark eyes shine.

Angelica smiles widely. “I’ll leave you to it!” She raises a fake toast, ring shining against her white knuckles, and disappears towards the bar.

Hamilton drops into her vacated seat. “Elizabeth.”

“Eliza,” she corrects.

“Eliza."

“And you?” she prompts.

“Hmm? Oh!” he laughs. “Alexander Hamilton. Well, Colonel Alexander Hamilton, if we’re being formal. This is an army ball, after all.”

“Alexander,” she says carefully, and Hamilton's eyes light up. “You’re very young for a colonel, when did you enlist?”

Aaron leaves them to it, and spends the rest of the evening talking to old friends. He lets a gorgeous new friend by the name of Sofia pull him over to a table for a bit more privacy, and sees Hamilton and Eliza right where he left them, dark heads tipped together and talking quietly.

He's a bit surprised, to be honest, that their hands are the only things touching. He's seen Hamilton sweet talk both boys and girls into dark corners or cabs within twenty minutes of meeting them. He's a serial faller in love, believing that each new person is the greatest he met yet. It would be endearing if it hadn't left Aaron sitting alone in a bar more than once.

Aaron turns back to Sofia, who is charming and doesn't prod him for details about the war. It's nice to forget. He's jolted back into the present when a very drunk Angelica comes to collect her sister.

Eliza is typing something, probably her number, into Hamilton's battered phone. She turns to go.

“Wait,” Hamilton says urgently. “Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

She smiles at him, somehow ignoring his lack subtlety, or worse, Aaron thinks, finding it sweet. “Sure.”

“What’s your address? I promise I’m not a stalker, I just have an idea and I think you’re going to like it.”

“Bets, Uber’s here!” Peggy calls.

“I trust you,” Eliza says. “I’ll text it to you.”

Hamilton smiles wider than he's ever seen before. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“Me too,” she says, and then she’s gone.

Aaron wonders how long this one will last.

\---------

ES: Are you going to show up outside my window with a boombox?

AH: Just you wait

AH: But you should probably keep an eye on your mailbox

\---------

A few days later, Angelica gets out of class early. John’s out of town and she hates going home to an empty apartment, so she takes the train another stop up and goes to her family’s house. She officially moved out years ago for college, but she still only lives a few blocks away and with law school at Kings and an internship nearby, she often finds herself stopping by for dinner or to steal clothes from her sisters. Her childhood bedroom remains almost perfectly intact, but once every week or so she spends the night curled up with her sisters instead.

She lets herself in, music still blaring in her headphones, and jumps a mile when she sees Eliza sitting on the barely used, decorative chaise lounge in the front room by the window.

“What are you doing?” she asks, catching her breath.

“Nothing,” Eliza says absently, not moving her eyes away from the window. “How was class?”

“It was fine. He let us go early because finals are next week.” She kicks off her shoes and heads into the hall. “I’m stealing some comfy clothes.”

Eliza gives her a thumbs up but still doesn’t look up.

Angelica heads to Eliza’s room, finds the pair of leggings she usually borrows, and changes quickly before going to find her other sister. Peggy is lying on her yoga mat, bent in some improbable way.

“Hola,” she says as Angelica flops down on her bed.

“Hi, Peg.” She knows without looking at the TV that Peggy’s favorite yoga video is approximately four minutes from the end, so she makes herself comfortable and scrolls through Twitter while she finishes up.

A few minutes later, a Peggy sized lump jumps on the bed next to her. “John’s out of town, right?”

“Yeah, down in Charleston doing something.”

“You staying over?”

“Maybe.” She puts down her phone. “What’s up with Eliza?”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Is she still watching for the mail?”

“Is that what she’s doing? She didn’t even look up when I came in and she’s sitting on that horrible couch.”

“She’s been there all day,” Peggy sighs. “That guy she met the other night apparently said to watch for something in the mail so there she sits, watching for something in the mail.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Already?”

She nods. “She’s been texting him nonstop since they met, too.”

“Jesus. This is Alex Hamilton?”

“Mmhm. You know him, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Angelica says casually. “I met him a few years ago, right after I graduated. At a bar with the rest of those guys he serves with.”

“The ones that were there the other night?” Peggy asks, not giving it a second thought when Angelica nods. “Cool. Let’s go get her away from that window. We raised her better than that.” She drags Angelica up and to the front room with her.

Eliza is gone, the front door left swinging.

“Oh, god,” Peggy says exasperatedly. “Look. The mail truck is outside. You know the mail lady is gonna get annoyed if Eliza hovers over her shoulder the whole time.”

“Let’s go get her.”

They’re waiting for the elevator, and when it dings on their floor, a very excited Eliza is inside, clutching a thick envelope to her chest.

“Hi!” she says breathlessly. “Where are you guys going?”

“We were going to keep you from harassing Denise,” Peggy says. “What is that?”

Eliza blushes. “It’s from Alexander. I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Well, come back inside, and open it where it’s warm,” Angelica says.

They file back into the apartment and drag Eliza all the way inside this time, piling on the comfortable couch in the living room.

Eliza holds the letter gingerly in her lap, staring at her own name written on the front.

“Are you planning to open it?” Peggy prompts.

“Yes, Margarita, I’m going to open it.” She opens it carefully, pulling out an impressively thick stack of paper covered in what must be Alex’s handwriting.

“Damn,” Angelica whistles.

“It’s just a letter,” Eliza insists, but the awestruck note in her voice says she knows it’s much more. She runs her fingers over the pages and her eyes light up in wonder.

“That’s an entire novel!” Peggy says, shocked.

“He’s very smart! He writes all of General Washington’s letters and speeches, of course he’s a fast writer.” Eliza says defensively.

“It is kind of a lot,” Angelica says.

“Yeah, you guys met two days ago,” Peggy adds.

“I guess it’s moving quickly, but I really feel like it doesn’t matter. There’s something there, I know it.”

“I don’t doubt that he likes you a lot,” Angelica says reassuringly. “Just be careful with that one, love. He’ll do what it takes to survive.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Eliza scowls.

“Nothing, Eliza,” Peggy jumps in. “We just don’t want you to get hurt. We’re your sisters, we worry.”

“Well, don’t,” she snaps. “I know you both think I’m naive, but I’m not stupid.”

“No one said you are!”

Eliza ignores her and storms off. The sound of her door slamming echoes through the apartment.

“Yikes,” Peggy sighs. “I guess we could have been more supportive.”

“We’ll apologize later,” Angelica decides. “Give her some time to moon over her letter and forget about it.”

“Were we overreacting? Is Alex okay?” Peggy asks seriously.

Angelica closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to think objectively. Is Alex okay? Aside from the obvious fact that no one is good enough for Eliza, is he okay enough? War hero, Washington’s right hand man, universally acknowledged as one of the revolution’s rising stars is definitely good enough. But is he good enough for her sister? He’s arrogant, obnoxiously so. She considers her knowledge, let drunkenly slip by one of his friends, that Alex isn’t from here, that he’s an orphan, that he’s dead broke. It’s not crazy to think that he might be after Eliza for her money and her name.

He fucks around, a fact Angelica knows all too well.

Herself notwithstanding, she knows about his flings with a few other girls in their circle and his friend Laurens. Angelica thinks back to their time together. She remembers the desperate, hungry way he was in bed, his relentless pace and fingers gripping so tight they bruised. She tries not to remember the way she pushed him harder, demanding more.

Can Eliza handle that?

He reminds Angelica, almost scarily so, of herself sometimes. Ambitious. Headstrong. All too aware that he’s the smartest person in the room. Unlike herself, however, he has nothing holding him back. No reason be cautious or any family to put ahead of his intense drive for more. Can a man like that be trusted not to ignore his partner in his pursuit of his goals? He’ll never be satisfied. Should he even be expected to be?

Angelica doesn’t want to play God with her sister’s relationship, she really doesn’t. But she can’t help but feel a sick rush of power, realizing that what she says next can determine whether they make it or not. She knows that if Peggy has any reason to worry about Eliza, her budding relationship with Alex is as good as dead. The Schuyler sisters take protecting each other very seriously. Even sweeter than sugar Eliza once publicly cursed out one of Peggy’s exes when he shared a private pic with his friends.

Angelica understands, deeply, why Eliza seems to have fallen for him so quickly. He’s brilliant and idealistic and wears his heart on his sleeve. He talks quickly and dances around uncomfortable questions with an ease that suggests he’s been doing it a long time. Eliza’s smart: there’s no way she didn’t pick up on the desperate, abandoned, lonely energy he tries so hard to hide. She sees what Angelica saw, an incredible young man hiding an incredible vulnerability. But there’s that hunger in him, that desperation, a sharp edge. She’s not sure that Eliza can ever understand that. She also thinks, knowing she’s being mean and selfish, that she might be a better match for him. This is her chance, if she takes it, to make sure she doesn’t have to watch Eliza date him. Her chance to maybe reclaim him for herself. She loves John, but they’ve never been exclusive and don’t expect each other to be.

Can she do that?

Before she can even finish her thought, she knows she can’t. She had her chance, the other night, when Peggy tugged on her sleeve and leaned in to whisper that Eliza couldn’t stop staring at that guy she had just said hi to. Angelica turned around to see who she meant and felt her heart stop when she saw it was Alex. She knows she should have said something then, but she saw her whisper to Peggy, “this one’s mine.” She couldn’t do it. Angelica remembers Eliza’s face, and while Eliza’s had crushes on more than a few guys in the past, she’s never seen her smile the way she did when Alex abandoned the ball and sat down next to her. She owes it to her sister to preserve her happiness. And Alex, for all his faults, seemed genuinely into Eliza. She remembers the amusement and overconfidence in his smile when he flirted with her all those years ago. She compares them, with no small amount of pain, to the tender, awestruck, and delicate way he held her sister’s hand. He has always struck her as a genuinely nice person, Angelica admits to herself. She’s met and interacted with enough of the guys he hangs around with to know that beneath their wild antics they are truly smart, principled, decent young men. Alex, perhaps, most of all.

She makes her choice: Eliza’s happiness over her own.

“Yeah,” she answers, “he is.”

Peggy lets out a deep breath, clearly relieved. Angelica aches slightly at how easily and completely her baby sister accepts her word as law.

“Good.”

Angelica forces herself back into the present. This is just another guy Eliza likes. She loves her too much to let this get in the middle of their relationship. “You think she’s done reading that novel yet?"

Peggy snorts. “Let’s go find out. I don’t care either way, I’m getting the highlights.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELIZA IS BACK! so excited for you guys to read all the literal thousands of words i've written about her.
> 
> let me know what you think?


	6. a letter nightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just let me finish this paragraph.”
> 
> “I will do it for you. ‘Oh, Eliza, mon amour, we have only met two weeks ago and yet I am head over heels for you. I never shut up about you, even when Lafayette only wants to nap.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins multiple chapters of my children falling in love! write the self-indulgent cotton candy romance you wish to see in the world, etc.

_I have to say, I’m not sure that you’ll be too pleased with my response. I’m not the writer that you are, not even close. And you’ve asked for so much, so soon, though it may not seem like a lot. I’d like to give you that, to tell you “everything about myself,” but the truth is I’m not sure where to start. You already know the basics: middle child, psychology at Kings, lifelong New Yorker. My birthday’s August 9th. I’m right handed and allergic to penicillin._

_Those are lame facts._

_I really don’t know what else to say. It’s not that I don’t know other things about myself. Here’s two more: my favorite color is blue, but not Crayola blue, the color that the sky is in the fall. I broke my wrist when I fell off a fence in elementary school. I didn’t cry until I found out Peggy and Angelica weren’t getting casts too. At that age, I was still scared of anything that would differentiate me from them, something I've only partially carried into adulthood._

_I guess those say a little about me, but it feels superficial. I want you to know me, for real, the same way I want to know you. I’m not sure listing a few facts can really say anything meaningful about me. What if they’re the wrong ones? What my favorite book says about me (Jane Eyre, btw. Currently, at least. Last month it was a book on child development written in the 1800s, weird and fascinating.) might give you the impression that I’m a certain person, and my favorite piece of art (Botticelli's Venus, or Beyonce’s self titled album) may tell you something entirely different. It makes me kind of uncomfortable to know that all the pieces of myself I may be able to give to you might add up to something wrong. Or worse, that my idea of myself doesn’t match the real thing, and I’m misdirecting you. I don’t know._

_I just have this impression that the picture post people have of me isn’t who I am. It bothers me with most people, but I can’t stand the thought of you not seeing the actual me. If what’s happening with us is actually happening, I can’t think of anything more important._

\---------

He leaps to answer when he hears a delicate knock that can only be her - the other guys usually pound or yell when they’re not simply walking in unannounced. He yanks open the door and she’s there, a dream become real.

Eliza kisses him before he can say hi, which quickly spirals until he falls back against the door frame and pulls her close, helping her slip out of her coat which he throws somewhere unknown behind them. It’s freezing outside, but somehow she’s radiating heat, he marvels, unable to still his hands as they move from her neck to her waist then one tangling in her silky soft hair and the other up the back of her sweater, which is miraculously almost as soft. How is everything about her designed to drive him fucking insane? What kind of magic is that? She wraps her arms fully around his neck and somehow moves in closer, her hips flush against his. He’s just maneuvered a leg between hers when someone yells his name, startlingly close.

“Jesus, Ham, your room is literally two steps away,” Herc admonishes. Lafayette stands next to him, grinning widely.

“Hi, guys. Nice to see you again,” Eliza says sweetly as Alex stands fully up, keeping an arm locked around her waist though she makes no attempt to move away. He would be worried that she might notice his total inability to not be touching her, always pulling her into his lap or reaching for her hand, but Eliza’s incredibly tactile as well. She likes resting her chin on his shoulder while he reads her his writing and playing with his hair.

“You too,” they say, reflexively, leers dropped in favor of polite nods. No matter how many dirty jokes they make with Alex over dinner, whenever faced with Eliza in the flesh they behave better than anyone who knows them thought possible, as if she’s actually the world’s prettiest kindergarten teacher she looks like. Alex knows better, and has the bite mark on his thigh, nail marks on his shoulders, and the knowledge of what a strangled “fuck” sounds like when she gasps it in his ear to prove it.

Magic, he thinks again.

He picks Eliza up, which he’s really a little on the small side for, but she hooks her legs around his waist obligingly even as she shares an eye roll with his friends.

“Goodnight,” he calls over his shoulder and kicks the door closed.

She unwraps her legs and slides sinfully down to the ground, landing lightly on her toes and kissing him on the nose. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes, feeling himself grinning like a lovesick teenager. “I missed you.”

“It’s been two days,” she chides, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and smoothing down his hair when it sticks up from the static. “You can’t have missed me that much.”

“I did,” he says seriously, shuddering as her hands make quick work of his belt. “Two days is the second longest time we’ve gone without seeing each other since we met. It’s statistically significant.”

She smiles that little half smile, one edge of her mouth dimpling her cheek. “What was the longest time?”

“Two days, and uh,” he pauses as she slips out of her shirt and kicks off her shoes. “Seventeen hours.”

“Quite a long time,” she says, faking a casual tone when he can see the blush spreading from her cheeks down her neck and across her chest.

“Too long, really,” he agrees, falling back onto his bed as she straddles his lap. He sweeps his hands up her sides, groaning into her mouth when she shivers and moves her hips in exactly the right way against his. He unhooks her bra on the first try - he can’t control his triumphant smirk, and feels her lips turn up under his as he flips her onto her back.

He leaves a trail of kisses down to her hipbone and nips at the smooth skin there gently, making her jump. He’s slept with enough people to know how this works, but the particulars of Eliza’s reactions are endlessly fascinating to him.

He slides a hand to the front of her jeans and undoes the button. Her hips move underneath him, seeking contact with little success, and she whines slightly.

“Be patient, Eliza,” he says blithely, inching the zipper down as she moves a hand into his hair and pulls slightly, knowing that usually gets a rise out of him. It works, obviously, making him impossibly harder, but he forces himself not to react too strongly. “We’ve already waited two days, what’s a few more minutes?”

“A lot,” she insists, before lifting her hips helpfully and allowing him to slide her jeans off.

“A few minutes is a lot,” he agrees. “I had a lot of time in these two days to think,” he kisses her forehead, “plan,” between her breasts, “imagine,” just below her navel, “what I might do when you were finally here and finally mine.”

They both freeze.

“Shit,” he swears, jerking upright. “I’m sorry, it just slipped out. I don’t even know where that came from.”

“I know, Alexander, it’s okay,” she says, pushing herself up to lean on her elbows, brow furrowed.

“I’m not possessive and weird ‘daddy-dom’ like that, I’m not, I swear, it just came out of me like some patriarchal sleeper cell.”

“I _know_ , Alexander. I think I liked it?”

He snaps back to Earth. “What?”

“I don’t know?” she wonders, voice rising slightly. “I mean objectively, I know that it’s a little ‘yikes’ but I was into it, I think.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah,” she says thoughtfully, a blush rising in her neck. “It was pretty hot. Can you do it again?”

He looks back down at her, wide eyes traveling from her fingers, fluttering against her stomach, up and over. “Mine,” he says again, easier this time, voice slipping lower than he intended, and she flushes again.

“Yeah. Wow. I guess this,” she waves a hand to where Alex still kneels between her legs, “isn’t as empowered as this,” she gestures to her head, which she tilts reflectively. "I wonder what my gender studies professor would have to say about that. Is it still problematic if I know it's problematic? Am I kink-shaming myself?" She blows a long strand of dark hair out of her face. "Sex positivity is difficult sometimes."

He’s staring at her, open mouthed.

She notices. “What? Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No!” he shakes his head. “I was worried about you. I never realized that was something I would be into either.”

“I guess we learn new things about each other every day,” she laughs. “Whatever, we’re two consenting adults and I know you respect me as a person. I’m not saying go full ‘50 shades’ on me, but a little less impulse control never hurt anyone.”

He leans back in, and despite the unexpected turn their night has taken, kisses her softly, almost chastely. He can feel her lips turn up into a smile as he pulls away.

“I’m not going to break, Alexander,” she says somehow gently and pornographically at the same time, pulling him by the front of his shirt fully down on top of her. “I do have a question, though.”

“Yeah?” he says distractedly as he tries to decide where to his hands should go next. He needs more than two, it seems.

“If I’m yours, does that make you mine too?”

The hand that’s come to rest on her breast squeezes unbidden and she moans.

“Fuck yes,” he says hoarsely.

She looks him dead in the eye and says, “My Alexander.”

He’s literally at a loss for words. Her lips turn up in a sweet, filthy smile.

“Good.”

\---------

The microwave in Alexander’s room beeps so loud it can be heard over the loud music he’s always blasting, and is incredibly piercing when four feet away.

“Alexander,” Lafayette huffs from the couch. “Stop writing your gross love letters and make the microwave stop the beeping, I am trying to sleep.”

“It’s one in the afternoon, you’re not sleeping. You’re supposed to be preparing for your meeting with Washington and Von Steuben later. And this isn’t even your room!”

“No, I am not, because you keep talking to yourself and leaving your noodles in the microwave to beep at me.”

“Just let me finish this paragraph.”

“I will do it for you. ‘Oh, Eliza, _mon amour_ , we have only met two weeks ago and yet I am head over heels for you. I never shut up about you, even when Lafayette only wants to nap.’” He throws a threadbare pillow at Alexander’s bowed, ponytailed head.

He sighs heavily and heaves himself up from his desk and grabs the noodles out of the microwave. The offending beeping stops.

“Happy?”

“I will be when you stop talking to yourself. No one besides Eliza wants to hear that.”

Alexander’s phone buzzes loudly. Lafayette groans.

“Hi, Laurens!” he answers. “How’s South Carolina?”

“What did the assembly say?”

“What?! What kind of bullshit excuse is that?”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry, John. We’ll figure out a way to fix this.

“Right.”

“Nothing new here. The General’s pissed about lack of supplies and Laf’s fake sleeping on my couch. He says ‘ _bonjour_.’”

Lafayette, who did not, waves a lazy hand anyway.

“Hmm? Oh, the ball, right,” Alexander says, too casually. “Yeah it was fine. Burr was there. Hercules got smashed and took home four girls, or at least he claims.”

He forces a laugh. “I know, we wish you could have been there.”

“No, don’t feel bad, I understand. I have a few links I need to send you, do you have Internet down there?”

“Yes, I know South Carolina has Internet. I was asking about you specifically. Anyway, check your email later.”

“Okay. Bye, John.” He hangs up and the room is quiet for a moment without the sound of a pen.

“So,” Lafayette drawls without opening his eyes, “you have not told your boyfriend about your girlfriend.”

"He’s not my boyfriend. And she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Maybe not anymore, and maybe not yet, but still.”

“John was the one who ended things with me, so I don’t see how that matters to you at all,” he says, blatantly lying like Lafayette wasn't the one he came to crying after finding out about Mrs. Laurens. “And you were the one who told me that I needed to get over him and start seeing someone new!”

“I did not mean the sister of another ex of yours, _imbecile_. Have you told Eliza about your past with her sister?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Angelica is not my ex. We hooked up a few years ago, that’s it! And she’s married now.”

“You know it is not right to lie to Eliza this way and to pursue her in front of Angelica, who must remain silent or ruin Eliza’s happiness. You are being cruel.”

“Shut up.” He loves Alexander, but he really is an impossible brat sometimes.

“You shut up! What do you want us to do? Act like we don’t know? I was there the night you met Angelica, and remember you sneaking off to see her every night for months. I was there the other night, when you clearly would have done so again if she was not married or if you had not diverted yourself with Eliza. Do you want me to keep this from Laurens as well? I cannot be part of this.”

“You don’t have to be, it’s my life, not yours.”

“Alexander, please, think about what will happen when she finds out. You would do well to abandon this before you hurt her.”

“She won’t find out,” he says desperately. “And I can’t drop this thing with Eliza. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, Laf. She’s the one, for real.”

“What?”

Alexander sits heavily down on the floor. “I need her, man. I’ve never met anyone that makes me feel the way she does.”

“I am sure that that’s true,” Lafayette says gently, doing his best not to set him off again, “but you have only known her for two weeks. You need to think about what you’re doing, and be careful that you do not hurt everyone else in your life.”

“I know,” he says, muffled by his hands over his face. “I know I’m being a selfish dick, but I can’t help it. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else. I just,” he pauses, a rare loss for words that makes Lafayette sit up straighter and listen carefully. "Things have been hard for me for a while, but she looks at me, and I just know. My life is gonna be fine as long as Eliza's in it."

Lafayette lets him have a moment to compose himself. Alexander so rarely shares anything personal. The tightly sealed lid on his inner life pops open and then shut like it was never there at all.

Alexander drops his hands, finally, his eyes a bit more settled and the flush in his cheeks abated slightly.

“You have to tell John. Now. This is almost exactly what you got so upset with him for."

“It’s not the same,” he insists. “I didn’t hide a wife for a year and a half.”

“Alexander, do not bullshit me.”

He sighs heavily. “What if he gets so mad he never speaks to me again? I can’t risk that.”

“Did you get so mad you never spoke to him again? No, you did not.” Lafayette says firmly. “You underestimate him. He wants you to be happy, even if he will not see to it himself.”

Alexander is quiet again, thinking. “What am I going to do about Angelica?”

It’s Lafayette’s turn to sigh. “I do not know. That is an entirely different mess.” Out of all the hundreds of pretty girls and pretty boys Alexander could have found, he had to pick one who’s sister he’d already slept with, continuing his excellent track record of falling in love with the wrong people after his quasi-relationship with the already-married-to-a-woman Laurens. How this human disaster is the one person who can help General Washington hold it all together, Lafayette will never understand.

“The fact that she hasn’t yet said anything is interesting,” he says slowly, eyes unfocused and fingers twitching like they do when he thinks out loud. “She wouldn’t let us get this far if she was going to drop that bomb on her anytime soon. It would break Eliza’s heart,” he says, carefully detached. “If she hasn’t already told her I don’t think she will.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently. “I know Angelica. She has a really strong sense of the greater good.”

“The greater good being your crush on her sister?” Lafayette says dryly.

“Oh, fuck off, Gilbert.”

“You said it, not me.”

Alexander sighs. “Whatever. I think it’ll be okay.”

“I hope so, too. I am happy for you, you know this, right?” He nods. “Good. Now let me see your letter before you send it and scare Eliza off for good. You Americans know nothing of the language of love.”

“What, you think you’re hot shit because you’ve been engaged since you were a newborn?”

“If you met my Adrienne, you would certainly speak differently to your betters,” he sniffs exaggeratedly. “You do not even know what game is.”

Alexander laughs and yanks his letter out of Lafayette’s grasp. “No time to proofread. She’ll be here in a few minutes and I gotta go buy a stamp.”

“And you cannot just give it to her when she gets here because….?”

“Because it’ll ruin the experience. We also have much more important things to do,” he says with a smirk.

“Keep your important things quiet for once.” He likes Eliza, he really does. He just does not like her in a way that he wants to overhear every night. “Does she not have an apartment just over the river with walls thicker than a sheet of paper?”

“An apartment her parents live in.”

Lafayette winces. “I will borrow your headphones.”

\---------

JL: Yo, what’s up with Ham and this girl

HM: He told you????? How are you doing???

JL: I’m fine Herc

JL: I mean I feel kind of weird about it

JL: But like, we did say we couldn't be together anymore

JL: And I said that I would always care about him even if we were both with other people

JL: It turns out I meant it

JL: This feels very adult and mature and I’m confused

HM: Good for you man. I’m really proud of you

JL: Thanks bro

JL: So what’s the deal? I just got off the phone with him but he was being twitchy on the details. He really only met her two weeks ago?

HM: YES! It was at the ball

HM: He told you about the sister thing right

JL: Which one is Angelica did I ever meet her

HM: It was a long time ago when you two were fighting about something

JL: You gotta be more specific

HM: LMAO

JL: Don’t worry bout it I’ll look her up on FB

JL: But sisters? Damn Alex wtf

HM: I know what are we going to do with him

HM: He's nuts about her tho

HM: He writes her these long letters every night

HM: She slept over here like four times already and I’m pretty sure he’s been to her place a bunch

JL: Damn

HM: I know

JL: What’s she like? For real? I think he was trying to make me feel better about the situation so he didn’t really tell me anything about her

HM: She really seems great from what I’ve seen

HM: Very sweet. But not in a shallow way. Like she genuinely cares a lot

HM: She reminds me of a disney princess except cool

HM: OMG you should have seen it she yelled at him the other day it was fucking awesome

HM: He was being annoying and complaining all day about her not texting him back

HM: And when she came over that night he made some dick comment about how if he could text her while running Washington’s office then she could find a minute on her lunch break

JL: GOd Alex what an asshole how does anyone deal with him

JL: What does she do btw

HM: She does development for an orphanage. Literal saint

JL: Wow

HM: I know Alex talked about it all through dinner after he found out

HM: Anyway she told him not to be such a patronizing egomaniac and to fucking chill

JL: !!!!!!!!!!!!

HM: He pouted it was amazing

HM: Laf and I were in actual tears laughing

JL: Well I can’t wait to meet her

JL: I think I’ll be back in a few weeks

HM: I heard. I’m sorry I know you worked really hard on the proposal

JL: Thanks man. Don’t worry I’ll find another way

HM: Hell yeah. Hurry home, we miss you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we'll learn more about eliza as a. ham and the rest do. this is kind of superficial for now, but they're still in the superficial stages of their relationship.
> 
> let me know what you think! hoping to update within a few days.


	7. you can be a new man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You make me nervous,” he says.
> 
> “That’s funny. I was just thinking how you make me feel calm.”

_My Alexander. I know we established that under cruder circumstances (not that I’m complaining. AT ALL), but I’m glad you’re comfortable with it. It’s been running through my mind since not long after we met. It makes me feel safe, the thought of you in my life like something permanent. Like nothing could ever be so bad as long as you’re there._

_It’s also reassuring to feel like there’s at least a part of you that’s mine. I’ve mentioned my own worries about my self perception vs. others', but I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, or Lafayette, or General Washington. It’s weird, when I think about it in the abstract. I’m writing a letter to and sleeping with the army’s de facto second in command. I told a French noble to go fuck himself the other night. (In my defense, if you're reading this to the French government someday in our (!!! our) future, he threw a very cold snowball at me and then laughed for an hour.) The general is your boss that you complain about like any other. It’s odd. Do you ever actually feel like "Colonel Alexander Hamilton, aide to General Washington?" I ask, again, because I know that it's a much starker difference for you, and every day I wake up shocked that I don't have to go to middle school._

_Anyway. I know you'll never belong completely to me, or to anyone for that matter. You're destined for far greater things than I can even imagine. But I comfort myself with the fact that even if part of you will always be claimed by the public, by the past, by another, there's another part of you that's mine, and me yours. I can't wait to see what becomes 'ours.'_

\---------

“You know what’s weird?”

“Please don’t ask that when we’ve just finished having sex.”

Eliza giggles into his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant. I was thinking it’s weird that I’ve never seen you in normal clothes. It’s either uniform or nothing around here.”

"Sometimes I wear my old sweatshirts," he says, making her laugh again. “Are you complaining?”

“No, Alexander, I’m simply making observations.”

He pulls her closer, fitting her tightly against his side and tangling their legs together. “Does that mean the many different colored underthings are your attempt to bring some variety into our clothed lives? Because I don’t want that to stop when I stop wearing a uniform someday.”

“No, that’s because you make a really adorable excited face every time I take my clothes off and there’s something new.”

“They were kinda sparkly today, Eliza, I’m only human. But in all seriousness you could wear anything - or nothing really, nothing is good - and I would still be excited to see you every time.”

“You do realize you already got me into bed, right?”

He laughs and kisses her hair. “Anyway, I’m glad you like the uniform. I’ve always heard ladies love a man in uniform.”

"That they do," she yawns, and nestles into him, falling silent.

He runs a finger up and down her spine. Even with Eliza’s heartbeat drumming comfortingly against his chest, the quiet turns his lazy traces into an anxious tapping.

“I don’t really have a lot of other nice clothes,” he says suddenly. Being around her sometimes makes him feel nervous and exposed, and he finds himself telling her a lot of things that he doesn’t intend to. “Especially not for this weather.”

“It’s okay,” she soothes. She spreads her hand over his heart, grounding him, and he immediately lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“That’s one of those things I like about the military,” he continues, focusing carefully on the spots of heat created by each of her fingers. Sometimes he can only talk to her like this, when she's not looking at him and he doesn't feel the need to impress her, throwing everything he has at her to get her to smile. “No one knows how poor you are when you all dress the same and live in the same shitty lodging and eat the same awful food. Not that they don't figure it out anyway. But it was nice to not have everyone immediately be able to tell that I wasn’t from here or I didn’t have any money.”

“It gave you the opportunity to stand out. When you take away all those superficial things, all you’re left with is talent: who has it and who doesn't. That’s what you needed to show what you could do.”

“It’s what I needed to get in the same room as you,” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She pulls away from him and sits up. “Stop it,” she says firmly. “We’re not going down this road again.”

“We both know it’s true,” he shoots back, all his insecurities rising without the warm weight of her to keep them away. “I’m not saying it’s only you, it’s everyone. No one would take me seriously if they knew I was just some bastard island kid that had to beg his way to college.”

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," he says angrily. "You don't get to dismiss everything I am just because you don't like it."

"I'm sorry if it sounded like that," she says, grabbing his hand. “I was just trying to say that it's not your fault, you're here now, and you earned scholarships you more than deserved. You are so much more than your past."

 

“You can say that all you want,” he sneers, jerking his hand away. “You know we wouldn’t be here right now if you met me as I really am. You wouldn't look twice at me.”

“Alexander, stop it,” she snaps. “You don’t get to make me be snobby rich girl. I don’t care about how much money you have, or what you’re wearing, or where you were born. I care about _you_ , and I care about how paranoid and insecure those things make you, but they don’t actually matter to me. You won’t make me be someone I’m not or make me admit to something we both know isn’t true.”

He shuts up. She's getting better at this; the last time he tried to pick this fight he made her so angry she almost started crying. The first time, she actually did. He remembers it and feels guilty all over again.

“I’m sorry.” He flops back down on his back.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Someday soon you’ll realize that I’m not going anywhere and can stop trying to provoke me into leaving.”

She lays back down next to him and he rolls to face her, leaving them almost nose to nose. All he can see are her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that. I told you, it's okay."

“You make me nervous,” he says.

“That’s funny. I was just thinking how you make me feel calm.”

“Really? Everyone tells me I stress them out.”

He can’t see her smile, but he sees the edges of her eyes crinkle up. “They’re probably not wrong. But it’s reassuring to me to know that someone who cares so much about everything is working so hard to fix it. It reminds me that things are probably gonna be okay.”

He loves her so god damn much it makes him dizzy.

“This is why you make me nervous.”

“Why? I don’t want to.”

“Because I can stay up all night writing you a letter trying to express just how much I like you, but I doubt anything I write could ever make you feel the way I just felt when you said that. I’m a really good writer, but that’s all I have and I worry it’s not enough.”

“Of course it’s enough.”

“I just need you to know. I have to be sure that you know how I feel about you. Because I’m pretty sure I love you.”

Her eyes crinkle again, this time softer. He reaches a hand up to trace the smile he still can’t see. He feels, rather than hears, her say “I love you, too.”

He leans in, replacing his finger with his lips. She sighs softly into the kiss, sending a thrill up his spine. He rolls her onto her back gently, pinning her hand under his to the mattress and biting her bottom lip, making her arch into him.

He moves to her neck, planting kisses down to the slope of her shoulder. “Say it again,” he whispers into her collarbone.

“I love you, Alexander.” Some hidden, hardened part of his heart crumbles into dust. He thinks if he can get her to say it enough times, he might forget what being unloved and alone ever felt like.

“Again,” he breathes, running a hand down her stomach and lower. “Please.”

“I love you,” she gasps, hips moving against his hand. He kisses her as she repeats it, again and again against his lips.

She comes quickly, shaking, still wound up and sensitive from earlier. He kisses her one more time and rests his head on her chest, sighing when her fingers tangle into his hair and hold him close. He falls asleep thinking that if he can just stay like this, with her, forever, it would be more than enough.

\---------

On the snowiest night of December yet, General Washington comes inside from the cold, stomping his heavy boots on the ragged old carpet by the door. He stoops to unlace them, and when he stands up, Hamilton and a wide eyed young woman are standing in front of him with identical shocked faces.

“Hamilton. Miss Schuyler, I presume?” he says calmly, fighting back a smile at the horrorstruck look on Hamilton’s face. Is this really what it takes for him to get to meet his favorite - hardest working, smartest, he corrects himself - aide’s girlfriend? He schools his face back into a stony, neutral expression he knows scares the shit out of the young men on his staff and waits.

“Yes, sir,” she says, voice remarkably clear and steady for someone caught attempting to sneak out of camp at four in the morning. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“You as well,” Washington says. “I know your father well. And Hamilton, of course, has told us all quite a lot about you.”

She blushes, but doesn’t cower. “Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure, like I said, but I really should be going.” She moves towards the door, stopping abruptly when Washington holds up a hand.

“How are you planning to get home?”

“It’s just a quick walk to the train, sir, and my family’s apartment is very close to the stop,” she says, fighting clear discomfort by gripping Hamilton’s hand tightly. If Washington didn’t recognize the look of faint pain on Hamilton’s face, often brought on by writing too much in too short a span of time, he would have never known. She’s tough.

“Miss Schuyler,” he admonishes gently, “we’re in the middle of a blizzard that won’t be abating until mid-morning at least.”

“Blizzard?” Hamilton finally recovers enough to ask. “Another one?”

“Yes, Hamilton, another one. It’s December in New York, surely you remember from last year in Pennsylvania?”

He looks alarmed. “Everyone said last winter was an especially rough one. I didn’t expect multiple storms this year.”

“It’s fine,” Eliza says, laying a small gloved hand on his arm reassuringly. “There’s usually a few. The other ones this year haven’t been very bad, remember how quickly they got the roads cleared?”

“She’s right,” Washington agrees. “This one is a little stronger than the others, but still nothing to worry about. It’ll be clear by midday. However, Miss Schuyler, I can’t in good conscience let you travel through it until then.”

“Sir,” they both begin in unison, Hamilton indignant already, Eliza very polite.

He raises another hand to cut them off. “It’ll be clear by midday,” he repeats. “I have a meeting with the French ambassador in town at one. We’ll give you a ride back then.”

“Eliza’s lived in New York her entire life, she’s hardly in need of military escort home,” Hamilton argues.

“It’s simply a safety precaution,” Washington says pointedly to Eliza in his most authoritative voice, the one that works on everyone, even Hamilton sometimes. “No one is leaving camp tonight, I’m hardly singling you out.”

“It’s okay, Alexander,” Eliza says, cutting off whatever further argument he was about to make. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the hospitality and hope you’ll let me know if I can be of any use in the morning.”

“I will. Hamilton, since you’re up, go shovel out the trucks. We have a crew going out in a few minutes with salt, but that won’t do any good if there’s snow on the ground.”

“Yes, sir,” he says. He looks at Eliza and visibly restrains himself from kissing her before heading outside, settling for squeezing her hand.

“Right. I expect you know the way back to Hamilton’s room?” he asks Eliza, forcing down another grin at the vaguely uncomfortable look she gets on her face. If he has to play the asshole father sometimes, he’s going to have some fun with it.

She nods and starts to go before turning back around. “Sir?” Eliza says, quietly but confidently. “Can I say something?”

"Of course," he says, curtly enough to keep the wariness out of his voice. Did Hamilton enlist her in his campaign to get his own command? Is she going to pump him for information about Hamilton's past? Ask if she's the first girl he's brought back here?

“Thank you. For keeping him safe.” She looks anything but shy in that moment, eyes blazing and back ramrod straight. “I know he wants to fight and he makes it extremely difficult for you to forget that. But he needs someone looking out for him. Thank you for being that person.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, unsure how to respond. He can’t believe she’s nailed Hamilton so exactly so quickly. “No thanks necessary, Miss Schuyler.”

“Eliza. And I insist that they are. Alexander’s special, sir, and I know you see it too. He’s incredibly grateful for the opportunities you’ve given him, even if he’s horrible at showing it. He thinks he wants to be a martyr, and I thank God every day you won’t let him be.”

He takes a deep breath. “May I walk with you upstairs, Eliza? I'd like to continue this conversation if that's alright with you.”

“I’d like that.”

He starts across the lobby of their abandoned office building to the elevators, Eliza following closely.

“Alexander’s very lucky to have you.”

“You’re very kind, sir, but it’s me that’s the lucky one.”

“How much has he shared about his background?” he asks cautiously.

“Enough,” she replies, just as carefully. “I’m not sure what you know, but I won’t break his confidence.”

“Eliza, I’m in charge of the Continental Army. I’ve seen files on everyone.”

“With all due respect, sir, there are things not in his file that are his own to share.”

He pauses, grateful for the finally arriving elevator that allows him to disguise his surprise. Lafayette had mentioned her a few times, always calling her “sweet” or “nice” or something similarly bland, which now that he thinks about it is probably because Lafayette knows how private Hamilton is and how difficult Washington and Hamilton’s relationship can be. Washington had feared that she would be passive, gullible, shallow; easily charmed into letting Hamilton have his way. It’s not that he thought Hamilton would ever date someone that wasn’t smart or that would take bullshit, but he’s still impressed by Eliza. Spine of steel, this one.

“My intentions aren’t to pry, I promise. I just want to ensure that there’s someone who knows what a hard time he’s had of it and can be prepared for the challenges being in a relationship with someone like Hamilton might pose.”

“He’s not a child,” she says coolly. “And I’m not naive. Any relationship is difficult. There’s no one else like him. It’s an easy choice.”

Washington feels old and cynical in the face of their bright, shiny, idealistic devotion to each other. He doesn't doubt that they truly care about each other, but he feels like he should warn her. That no matter how open Alexander thinks he's being, no matter how well she learns to read him, there will always be things that shock you about the person you love. That there are rooms inside them you'll never even find the doors to.

He doesn't.

"I apologize, Eliza, I know that you two know what you're getting into. I didn't mean to imply anything otherwise."

The elevator dings on the fourth floor where Hamilton and his friends’ rooms are.

“Okay,” she says simply, and steps out. “Sorry for getting so defensive. I’ve just had similar conversations with my family lately. They like him, of course, how could they not? But they don’t think I can ‘handle’ him. Like I’m six years old again, begging for a puppy.”

"You seem to have a better grasp on him than anyone I've seen," he tells her.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely.

It's true, but it isn't necessarily the ringing endorsement she takes it as. She certainly believes she does, with the casual arrogance of youth. He's clearly told her things he doesn't tell other people, and she seems empathetic and smart and observant enough to pick up the things he doesn't say. Probably even Alex thinks she knows him better than anyone else, and lulled by that sense of safety, confides in her even more deeply. He hopes that'll be enough.

“They think I should be with someone ‘nicer,’ that can give me a picket fence and two kids in the suburbs and be home at five for dinner every night.” They get to Hamilton’s door. She unlocks it and steps inside, motioning for Washington to follow her, which he does despite knowing how Hamilton might feel about it. “It’s not that I don’t want a family. I do.” She shrugs out of her coat as he sits in the desk chair. “So does Alexander. He wants so many other things, too. I love that about him.” She hops up on the bed, feet dangling slightly. “They worry that I won’t be enough for him. So do I, sometimes.”

So does Washington. There's no amount of love in the world that could fill the gaping wound inside that young man, but Eliza seems to be trying her best. And just because it can't fix everything doesn't mean it's not valuable.

“You shouldn’t think that. You're very good for him." He wishes he knew her well enough to ask if Hamilton is good for her, too. To see if she relaxes when he's around, the same way that Hamilton stops trying to be as tall as humanly possible when she's next to him. He hopes against hope that he's as good to her as she is to him.

“He cares about you, too,” she offers, shy for the first time since the beginning of their encounter. “I know he can’t admit it, but he does.”

“That’s nice to hear,” he says, more honestly than he intended. He stands up. “I should be going, I have briefings in an hour.”

“Good night, sir. Thank you again.”

He pauses at the door. “Don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s ever anything I can do for you. Or if there’s anything I need to know.” He grabs a piece of paper from the desk and scribbles his personal email on it. The one Hamilton doesn’t have access to.

She takes it with solemn eyes. “I will, sir. You as well.”

“Good night, Eliza. I’ll see you at noon.”

\---------

The train is extra crowded that morning, full of people who don't want to risk driving when the roads are barely cleared. Peggy gives up all hope of reviewing her reading before class and shoves her book back into her bag. She tugs on Eliza’s headphones, who absentmindedly takes pulls out an earbud and hands one over without looking up from her phone where she’s texting Alex as usual. Peggy leans her head on Eliza’s shoulder and reads along shamelessly.

AH: Come over tonight

ES: No I already made you put off writing that report last night

AH: If I recall correctly you didn’t make me do anything I wasn’t an enthusiastic participant in

ES: Stop blowing off your work all day and then staying up til 5 to finish it

AH: Stop sending me unsolicited dirty pics of you in the shower until I have no choice but to come over and join you

Peggy's mouth drops open. Eliza doesn't notice, only smiles faintly to herself and types rapidly back.

ES: Okay

AH: I was kidding please never stop doing that

AH: Promise

ES: ;)

AH: Speaking of do you have any outtakes

AH: Jk I know you do you looked really good yesterday

ES: Hell yeah I did that afternoon light is A+

AH: I need them the day is long and I miss you already

ES: It's been three hours

AH: Your point being????????

AH: Anyway remember when you promised you would send me the full catalog immediately

ES: Hmm funnily enough I don't

ES: But I may have a few

ES: You can maybe have them when you stop procrastinating and get more than 4 hours of sleep

AH: This is an impossible choice

AH: Get a “reasonable” amount of sleep, alone in my dorm bed that smells like 100 sweaty men

AH: OR

AH: Sacrifice a few pitiful hours of sleep for the greater good of making you come so many times you can’t sit up

AH: HMM ELIZA LETS NOT PRETEND LIKE WE BOTH DONT KNOW WHAT OPTION IS BETTER

ES: I’m not saying I don’t like multiple orgasms but you can’t give them to me if you’re dead of exhaustion

It's too much. Peggy bursts into scandalized laughter.

Eliza clutches her phone to her chest. “Peggy!” she scolds. “I didn’t know you were reading those! Boundaries!”

“Oh come on,” Peggy says, still laughing. “It’s 8:30 in the morning and you are already sexting away like some horny teenager!” One of the other riders on the packed train whistles which sets Peggy off again. “God, this is too much. My angelic older sister seducing soldiers away from the war effort.” She leans in close to whisper in Eliza’s ear. “How many times was it last night, dearest Betsey?

“Oh my god, stop.”

“Exactly how great is _the_ Colonel Hamilton in bed? Anything good I can leak to the press?”

“Peggy!”

“That good?”

Eliza tries to look offended but is grinning widely. “Better.”

She looks back at her phone, where the screen is already lit up with multiple text notifications.

AH: Ugh you’re right

AH: Why are you always right

ES: 0:)

AH: Right about that too

AH: My better angel

AH: I don’t know what I’d do without you

“Ugh, gross.” Peggy finally turns away as Eliza rolls her eyes.

“This is what grosses you out?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Be nice, he’s a corny nerd but he’s my corny nerd,” she says fondly and types something long and similarly gross back.

“How do either of you get any work done when you’re always texting or writing novels or having sex? Isn’t he supposed to be Washington’s chief of staff?” The letters really are crazy. Peggy doesn't understand how they could possibly have anything else to say to each other when they literally spend all day talking, but every other day a thick packet of pages arrives via snail mail. Eliza lets them see highlights, but keeps them hidden behind her Bible, where she thinks incorrectly that her more religiously-lapsed sisters won’t go looking for them.

They don’t read them, ever, that would be an atrocious violation of Eliza’s privacy. (Text messages are fair game, per the sacred Schuyler Sister Agreement™) Angelica refuses to even touch them, simply stares at them with a terrified sort of longing while Peggy flips through the pages. John must not be very good with words if she’s so jealous. Peggy just scans them for anything creepy and is always relieved when she doesn’t find anything.

“I honestly don’t know,” Eliza sighs. “The orphanage is busy but it can’t compare to what he’s doing.”

“Does he ever sleep?”

Eliza frowns. “No, unfortunately. But I guess you knew that if you were reading,” she says, shooting her sister a Look. “If he stopped trying to do six things at once maybe he could have more spare time, but he can’t function without constant stimulation. Quiet makes him anxious. I’m trying to get him to put the phone down every once in awhile. It’s a work in progress.”

“You know, it’s not your job to take care of him. He’s not one of your kids, even if he is an orphan.”

“I know that.” Peggy looks at her skeptically. “I do!”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” Eliza says emphatically. “It’s like-” she pauses, and Peggy can see her mind working. “He doesn’t really need me to take care of him, not really. But I want to give him what he gives me, which is making me feel like who I am is enough. When I have doubts or when I feel insecure he’s always there to remind me that I can actually do the things I want to do. He believes in me, he really does. And I just want him to know that there’s someone that believes in him, too.”

“That’s sweet,” she says, awestruck. “You’re amazing, Saint Liza.”

“Not a saint,” she corrects automatically, the same way she does every time Peggy uses that particular nickname. “Trust me, I’m a lot nicer to you than I am to him.”

“You better be. No way Alex gets to replace me as your favorite,” she says, laying her head back on her big sister's shoulder.

"Never," Eliza promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry that my version of fluffy romance is people fighting over how much they love each other, having sex, and weirding other people out. SIKE i'm not! my kids love each other so much, :')
> 
> actual plot returns in the next chapter!


	8. laurens, i like you a lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shrugs. “Is she really as great as you guys said?”
> 
> As if on cue, they hear her continue to yell at Alex: “Have you ever THOUGHT about another human beings feelings beside your own in your entire life?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started as a single scene and spiralled to this. i hope you like it as much as i do.

John forgot just how fucking cold it got in the north.

Finally given the chance to escape the shithole state of his birth, he’s finally back at camp after driving all day, seeing no one but the other Continental soldiers at the checkpoints on the route. He goes straight upstairs to the block of rooms his friends are all still in. He can’t wait to see them. He’s never really gotten along with his family - emotional distance compounded by years of boarding school an ocean away, making it sometimes feels too late to even try to have a real relationship - and he hates having to play nice with his father to try to push even a centimeter of progress through the state legislature. Their shitty office building headquarters feels more like home than anything ever has, and he feels himself relax more and more as he walks through the lobby, seeing friends and feeling comforted by the familiar energy.

He can hear the familiar sound of Alex yelling and smiles fondly. Some things never change.

He opens the door to their floor and stops in his tracks when he hears something new: a woman’s voice yelling back at him.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t SAY anything.”

“Because you wouldn’t have come if I told you!”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have! Because this is a bad idea and a shitty thing to blindside someone with. Two someones!”

“You kept saying you wanted to meet him and now you can! We’re both busy people I don’t want to delay.”

“ _Now_ we’re both busy people? Because when you called earlier it was ‘Eliza, I know you’re not doing anything tonight come over come over come over,’” what must be Eliza snaps back in a hilariously on point imitation of Alex’s voice.

“I don’t sound like that!” he yelps, sounding exactly like Eliza just had. “And you aren’t doing anything! Why should I pretend like I don’t know that?”

“Because of basic manners and human decency, Alexander. You don’t get to decide that I’m going to do something, not ask, and then get mad when I don’t.”

Some things _really_ never change, John thinks.

“If I had asked, you would have said no!”

“You don’t get to make decisions for me! Or for other people! What if he doesn’t want to meet me right away? I told you I didn’t want to be obnoxious about it.”

“He won’t care, I’ve already told him about you.”

“But now I’m going to be here the second he gets back and just wants to see his friends. Imagine how that might feel for someone. Do you not remember how shitty you felt when you found an unexpected significant other?”

“This is different!”

“It’s not different just because you want it to be. You’re being selfish and I wish you hadn’t dragged me into it.”

Alex makes some familiar noise of irritation as the door behind him opens. Hercules pokes his head out and his face lights up when he sees John. He wraps one arm around John’s shoulders and drags him inside his room, keeping the other hand pressed to his lips in what is clearly a strenuous effort to keep silent.

“What’s up, man?” he says with a grin, hugging John so tight he’d squirm out of it if he hadn’t missed him so much.

“Move, you are not the only one that missed him,” Lafayette says, mock annoyed, and wraps his arms around both of them. “Welcome back, Laurens.”

“Thanks, guys,” John says. He feels warm and safe and so happy to be back with his friends he thinks his heart might burst.

The peaceful moment ends when the racket across the hall starts up again.

“Eliza!”

“No!”

They break up, Lafayette tugging John's ponytail affectionately as he and Hercules move back to where they must have been before John came in, pressing their ears against the door.

“That’s her, then?”

Lafayette nods. “Yes. It is not always like this, but it is fun to listen to Alexander be put in his place.”

“They’re, uh, fighting? About, um -”

“About you, yeah,” Hercules finishes.

“I didn’t know he told her about… us.” It’s still hard for him to put a word to what he and Alex were.

“He has told her everything except how he fucked her sister,” Lafayette says dryly. “I hate him so much sometimes.”

Herc nods. “Same.”

“Yikes.”

The yelling reaches a new volume and they all fall silent, trying to hear.

“Apparently he didn’t tell her that you were coming home today and made up some excuse to get her over here. She feels bad, making the ex meet the new one right away,” Hercules explains. “Just in case you or someone else within a twenty mile radius didn’t hear every word.”

“Well, I don’t mind, it’s fine,” John says. It sounds fake even to his own ears.

They turn and look at him with matching skeptical expressions.

“I’ll be fine,” he insists.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Herc says. “No one expects everything to be fine right away except him, and we all know what he’s like.”

John shrugs. “Is she really as great as you guys said?”

As if on cue, they hear her continue to yell at Alex: “Have you ever THOUGHT about another human beings feelings beside your own in your entire life?!”

“Yes, she is,” Lafayette says gently. “She makes him very happy.”

“That’s all I want,” John says. “Really. It’ll get easier.”

“We’re here for you, man,” Hercules says. “Either way you won’t have to third wheel. Alex wants all five of us to go for dinner, he even finished his work early for it. Hopefully having you and her in the same place will short circuit him or something and he’ll calm down enough to actually behave like a normal person.”

John smiles, finally. “He likes having all his people together.” He joins them at the door, sliding down onto the floor to press his ear beneath his taller friends.

“I still don’t understand why you’re mad,” Alex says peevishly.

“Please stop talking or I will actually be mad again and I would like to have it together when I meet your ex.”

“Why are you so worried? He’s gonna love you. I do.” And isn’t that a punch in the gut. “Herc and Laf do.”

“You weren’t sleeping with them two months ago!” she says, a bit hysterically. “I told you, it’s not me I’m worried about.” She pauses. “You really think he will? I want him to. He’s so important to you and I just want us to get along and I don’t want him to hate me but I understand why he would and-”

“Eliza, breathe.” It’s weird hearing Alex being the reasonable one. “It’s going to be fine. He’s my best friend. I know he’s going to like you and it’s all going to be fine.”

“Okay,” they strain to hear as the conversation drops back to a normal volume. “Okay. What time is it? He’s going to be here any minute.”

“6:43. He said he would be here by 6:45. Should I call him or wait?”

“Give him those two minutes,” Eliza laughs. “I’m sure he’ll call when he gets here.”

A hand taps John on the head. He tilts his head up; his friends are looking at him expectantly.

“Are you ready?” Laf asks.

John nods. They back up so he can stand up and follow him across the hall to stand in front of Alex’s door.

“Can I call him now?”

“Alexander, it’s been twenty seconds.”

John knocks on the door, for what he’s pretty sure is the first time ever. He hears some scrambling inside and then it’s ripped open.

“You came back!” Alex is smiling so wide, his eyes so bright, everything about him so familiar that John’s stomach hurts. He launches himself forward and hugs John tighter than should be possible with his skinny arms. John laughs into his neck, letting his long hair obscure everything else. He can feel Alex’s heart beating as wildly as his own.

“I did,” he says, and he can feel Alex exhale raggedly against him.

After a minute or so, John taps twice on Alex’s ribs, a silent signal, and they loosen their grips and step just far enough apart that they aren’t actively hugging anymore, still close enough that he can feel the heat from Alex’s body.

No one else in the room says anything. Alex is still staring at him, the light in his eyes softened to something warm and kind, less intense than his usual fireworks. It’s too much, to be here and to have him _looking_ at him like _that_. John looks away. He can feel Alex deflate a little.

Eliza must see it too, because she appears next to Alex immediately. “Hi,” she says. Her voice sounds different when she’s not yelling and muffled by a door. Younger. More reserved. “I’m Eliza.”

Alex wraps his arm around her waist (the other still resting on John’s shoulder) and the smile is back. “John, Eliza. Eliza, John.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says, terrifyingly sincere. She looks like she wants to say something else but stops herself and tries a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” John replies. His voice sounds very normal, he thinks.

They shake hands, carefully, neither gripping too tight.

Alex is practically vibrating with excitement. John flicks his eyes back to his maniacally grinning face, and out of the corner of his eye sees Eliza look up with the same fond smile he can feel on his own face.

“I made a reservation!” he announces, eyes darting between John and Eliza, clearly looking for praise like the overeager child he is. “At Masada.”

“That sounds great, man,” John says.

“It’s for 7:15. We should get going! I didn’t know that you were going to be here so late, you said 6:45 at the latest,” Alex says, finally detaching himself from both of them and grabbing his coat. Someone must have fixed the loose button in the middle. John swallows hard.

“Chill, Alexander, the restaurant is a five minute walk away,” Lafayette says.

“You never know,” he says huffily. Eliza rolls her eyes but lets him help her unnecessarily into her coat, smiling when he straightens her hat over her long, dark hair. Alex looks wildly around the room for his phone (he can never remember where he put it down thirty seconds ago even once in his life), finds it, and shoves it in his pocket. “Let’s go!”

The five of them file into the hallway, Alex already starting to ramble about why he picked this particular restaurant, and the conversation he once had with the owner, and the time he brought Washington takeout, and on and on while he locks the door behind him.

He reaches absentmindedly for Eliza’s hand, what seems like an automatic gesture, but she turns gracefully away and starts talking to Hercules. She turns her dark eyes on John, tilting her head almost imperceptibly at Alex, who is just noticing that his hand is empty, the beginnings of a frown gathering on his face.

John realizes immediately what she’s trying to do, and tries to telepathically send her his thanks. He’s not good at saying what he feels to begin with, let alone the meaningful looks and silent conversations. He’s better with actions, rather than words. So he surges forward to Alex’s side and feels his heart beat faster when Alex turns all of his attention on him.

“If this place is so great, how come we never went when I was up here?” he teases.

Alex laughs, the sound warming John all over, before launching into another monologue about food groups and struggling restaurants and the best time of day to eat.

Dinner is nice. He missed his friends more than he realized.

Eliza… is nice. She keeps looking at him nervously and can barely address him directly. She’s trying very, very hard, alternating between trying to make herself invisible and John’s new best friend. It’s putting him on edge.

Alex doesn’t notice, keeps chattering at high speed to everyone at the table, non-stop, even when Lafayette yells at him for talking with his mouth full of food.

When the check comes, Alex grabs it and darts away to the cash register to pay and talk to the owner. Laf and Herc are playing some stupid game, trying to see who can balance the most pieces of silverware on their fingers at once.

John and Eliza are effectively alone for the first time.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” she says.

He tries for casual. “Sure, what’s up?”

“I want to apologize,” she says. She has this weirdly determined look on her face that reminds him a little of Alex.

“For what?” he asks warily.

“For tonight. I know this is awkward, and you weren’t expecting me to be here and I’m sorry if it was weird for you and you wanted to hang out with your friends. I didn’t know you were coming back today, Alexander didn’t tell me until I got here, and I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“Okay? I’m an adult, I can handle hanging out with people I don’t know.” He means it to come off lightly, chill her out a little, but instead he sounds kind of offended. Which he might be. He really wasn’t stressing about it until she said something.

“I didn’t say that you couldn’t!” she says quickly, defensively. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that I understand that this was probably weird for you and I’m sorry for the role I played in it. I know it’s difficult to see your ex with someone new.”

He bristles. “Alex is my friend. My best friend. That takes precedence over something as stupid as jealousy. For me at least.”

That careful smile drops off her face in an instant. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying maybe you’re projecting your jealousy issues on me.”

“I’m not projecting anything!”

“If you insist.”

The petulant scowl slides from her face as quickly as if it had never existed, replaced by a bright smile. John follows her eyes to where Alex is looking over at them, clearly thrilled to see them “getting along.” He feels momentarily bad that he can’t fulfill Alex’s dreams of an emotional threesome, but the way Eliza so easily faked that smile makes him uncomfortable.

He can tell exactly when Alex looks away, because she looks irritated again. “I am just TRYing to say that it’s okay if you feel uncomfortable, you and Alexander only broke up a few months ago and I know there’s still a lot of feelings there and that it wasn’t my intention to shove our relationship in your face.”

“The only person making me uncomfortable is you by talking about my presumed feelings.” And by talking about your own “relationship,” he doesn’t say.

“That’s not what I was trying to do!” she says, voice rising to almost a yell. They both look over to Alex, who is thankfully still waving his arms around, deep in some loud conversation. She slumps in her seat and covers her anger flushed face in frustration. “Fuck. I wasn’t trying to be a bitch about this, I really wasn’t. This was a weird and unnecessary apology for nothing to begin with and I was only doing it because I felt guilty and uncomfortable.” She peeks out from behind her fingers. “Can I apologize for this and we can leave it at that before I fuck this up too?”

He nods. “It’s okay. Really.”

“It’s not, but thank you for saying that,” she says. “I shouldn’t have assumed I knew what you were thinking. I just really wanted you to like me and I was worried that you hated me for stealing Alexander from you and I overcompensate sometimes.” She sighs. “And I know, I know, I really do know that you can’t steal human beings and that that isn’t what happened anyway. I’m sorry. I guess I’m the uncomfortable one.”

“Seems like it,” he says dryly, immediately regretting it when she tenses up again. “I’m sorry, too. I can be difficult on purpose when talking about emotional stuff.” He looks down, remembering Alex’s hurt face when John pretended like he didn’t know why Alex might think they were together. _Fuck you, John, you fucking coward._ “I know what you were trying to say, and I appreciate it.”

She smiles tentatively at him, and a returning smile comes easier than he expected.

“Can I ask you something?” She nods. “Why are you so nervous? What did he say about me that’s freaking you out so much?”

Her eyes widen.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to."

“It’s not that.” She tilts her head again, thinking. “I just don’t know how to say it without mentioning things that Alexander told me privately.”

He feels a little flash of anger, irritated that this girl who got here a month ago thinks she knows Alex so much better than he does after three years and literally fighting for their lives together. And why does she keep calling him Alexander? She must want so desperately to think she’s special to him. He wonders if she does know about Alex and Angelica after all, and is searching for proof that Alex won’t drop her the same way he did her sister.

“Fine.” He bites back another dick comment.

“It’s more what he didn’t say,” she says thoughtfully. “It was ‘John this’ and ‘John that’ for a while, and I finally figured out that you were the same ‘Laurens’ everyone else kept talking about, like half of Alexander’s whole. So I asked him about it. He freaked out a little at first. I think he expected me to be scandalized by it,” she scoffs lightly. “Like I’ve never heard of bisexuality or expected him to never have slept with anyone but me. He thought he was being chill about it, but I could tell that he still loves you, very deeply. It’s been hard for him, sorting out what you were together from how he feels about you as his best friend, but he’s trying. And he’s so, so happy that you’re back. I think he was scared that you were gone forever. Like most people he’s cared about.”

John tries to breathe in and out carefully. “It’s been hard for me, too,” he confesses. “I mean, maybe in another world, yeah, but… Did he tell you why we broke up?”

“Yeah,” she says somewhat apologetically.

“Good.” He doesn’t feel like explaining all of his past mistakes to her, to see her look at him like that, like he’s some kicked puppy. “Anyway.” He clears his throat. “I’m not here to mess things up with you and him. I want him to be happy.”

“Me too,” she says. “I don’t want to mess things up with you two either. I would never want any of my own weird jealousy get in the way of your friendship.”

“Thanks.” He means it. “I think I like you. You can stop worrying. We’ll just be nice people to each other and figure it out as we go along.”

She smiles, for real this time. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't a love triangle (ew) story, but i wanted to have their meeting feel real. and, if you'll allow me to ramble about my own concept here, this is all about examining eliza and "what she knows" from different and conflicting perspectives. i figured laurens would be a good first perspective to not be immediately charmed by her or know her well enough already, which is necessary because while she is on one level my perfect angel darling child, she's a real human! with flaws, etc!
> 
> MORE GROSS ROMANCE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER.
> 
> and thank you for all of the comments and love! it feeds me.


	9. as long as i'm alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But he chose her,” he says for lack of anything else.
> 
> She presses her lips together tightly. “I hope he’ll be satisfied.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep trying to think of ways to work it in, but my peggy is dating a fortyish badass lady that i keep picturing as solange knowles. or naomi campbell empire style. SO. enjoy that.

_You’re very sweet, but I’d hardly consider myself some extraordinary do-gooder. Ever since I was little, I’ve struggled to keep any sense of optimism about this world we live in. I look around at all the suffering, all the pain, and I wonder what good anyone can really do. These kids I work with - I guess you’re the last person I need to explain what they’re going through to, so I won’t dwell on it. I do what I can: I wring donors dry so we have funding for toys and psychologists and trips to museums, I let myself be talked into reading another story, I try to do what I can to make their bad days better. I know it’s nothing, especially when compared to the tragedies they’ve faced and everything they need, but I try. I know it sounds shallow, coming from someone born to as much privilege as I was, but I really do feel drawn to public service. Not in the way you do, of course. I could never imagine acting on that kind of scale. I’d hope to make a difference in what small way I can. But I feel so helpless sometimes. What can I really do to make their lives better? What can anyone? How can we fix any of the world’s multitude of problems when we’re helpless to even fix the people we love most?_

_You make me feel that way sometimes, too. I don’t mean that in a bad way, don’t be upset. But I don’t know what I could possibly say to express how you make me feel, how much I seem to need you. You make me feel safe to be myself, all of it. I can’t imagine meeting you and not loving you. I don’t seem to have any choice in the matters of my heart, but if I did, I’d still choose you._

_Anyway, I’m sorry to dwell on the maudlin. I don’t mean for you to pity me, or to write yourself into a frenzy reassuring me that I’m great and exceptional and will single handedly end child poverty. It’s just something I think about, this sense of helplessness, something I carry around with me. I don’t think it’s passivity, though I know that my sisters see it that way. I’m not passive, I’m not a doormat, I’m not naive. I look around at the world and I can’t imagine how I, as one person, can do anything that would really change anything. Is that some kind of nihilism or something? Now that I’m writing it out, it really seems quite dark, but I don’t think it is. I think that there’s so much happening and so many different forces at work that what one person can only play a small part. It’s actually kind of beautiful when you think about how we’re all on this journey together._

_I’m glad it brought me to you._

\---------

AH: Where are you?????

ES: At home. Everything okay?

AH: I’m outside let me up

AH: Now

ES: Okay give me two minutes

The buzzer sounds and Alex yanks open the door and hurries upstairs.

Eliza’s waiting at the front door. “Be quiet,” she warns, “everyone’s asleep.” She takes his hand and leads him to her bedroom.

He takes off his coat and throws it on a chair while she quietly shuts the door.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, adorable wrinkle between her eyes. “I thought you were working tonight.”

“I was,” he says, pacing. “But this is important.” He looks at her fully for the first time and immediately loses his train of thought. She’s wearing his oldest sweatshirt, the one he accidentally left here a week ago with what appears to be just underwear.

“Fuck,” he breathes, legs him moving automatically closer to her and pulling her close for a long kiss.

She rests her forehead against his, breathing heavily. “Is that what was so important?”

He remembers the letter in his pocket and tears his hands away from her so he can breathe. “No! I have things to say before we can attend to other important matters like your total refusal to wear clothing.”

She raises a skeptical eyebrow but steps away slightly, pushing him to arm's length. “Okay?”

“I got your letter,” he begins, yanking it out of his pocket. “We need to talk about it. Now.”

“Okay,” she says, looking nervous and insecure and he hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in the world. This is what he came here to fix in the first place.

He’s never been so grateful for anything in his life as he is that Eliza liked the overlong, breathless, borderline unhinged letter he sent her the day after they met. They’ve been a lifeline to him, helping him escape the difficulties of the war, letting him lose himself in selecting the perfect words for her or rereading her turns of phrase. They’re his window into her mind. She’s fascinating to him, her dark eyes somehow telling him everything she’s thinking and hiding everything about her at the same time. He wants to understand her, every thought and memory and personality trait, wants to be able to draw her from memory, distill her down to a few words that he can carry around in his heart, sure that she’s there to stay.

He treasures every word she writes to him, pores over her letters on the rare night she’s not sleeping next to him. He sometimes reads them even when she’s there, on the nights he can’t sleep. She sleeps so soundly, calmed by him next to her. She trusts him. He wants so desperately to be worthy of that trust.

The fact that she’s insecure about her letters is appalling. She has trouble talking about herself, instinctive modesty and years of being out shined by her sisters making her nervous. He treasures the little details of her she lets slip, and collects them all, slowly putting the pieces of Eliza Schuyler together.

He loves her, so goddamn much it terrifies him.

“No, Eliza. Don’t be upset,” he says. “I couldn’t let you wait for a response. It’s too important. Just sit and listen,” he says, moving her to sit on the edge of her bed.

“Okay?”

“You need to know how wrong you are,” he says simply. “You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. You’re humble, and generous, and so smart, but I need you to know that you are so special and so important. I know that it’s not in your nature to brag or to think about yourself, but it would be criminal for me to not do everything in my power to make you see just how amazing you are.”

She smiles faintly at him. “I love you too, Alexander. Thank you for saying that.”

“I’m not just saying that,” he says, frustrated. “I mean it. I really do. I need you to know. It kills me that you could possibly think that you aren’t enough to make a difference. I know that the world is wider than just us, and I know that there are far more worthy causes than me. But you’ve done that for me. You’ve changed everything. You’ve given me a sense of purpose beyond simply living past tomorrow. If you can do that for me in a month I can’t even fathom how much you can do for this world in a lifetime and I can’t wait to watch. That’s why I couldn’t wait to respond to your letter. It would be criminal for me to allow you to keep feeling less than or powerless when you’ve entirely changed my life.”

She’s looking at him, eyes shining, but he can tell she still thinks this is just him being wordy and flattering again. It’s not, not even a little bit. This is more honest than he can ever remember being.

“Eliza, listen, I need you to listen because I am dead fucking serious. This isn't a joke or a game, this is everything. I want you to know that you never need to feel less than anyone or alone or powerless. I’ll make sure of it. Whatever goals you have, whatever dreams you can imagine, you and I will build them together. I promise, as long as I’m alive, Eliza, you’ll never feel helpless ever again.”

She whispers something that might be his name and his heart swells.

“All I had, my whole life, was me. My brain, my work, my honor, and whatever I could make of it. And on paper, it’s not much. Some college credits, minor military rank, but nothing else. But now,” he takes a deep breath, “I have you. And I never knew how that could feel. I never knew what it was like to not feel totally alone or like I mattered to anyone. My whole life has changed since I met you. I know, now, that my life is going to be fine because you’re in it.”

He kneels in front of her and lays his hands on the smooth skin just above her knees. “I don’t know when the war’s going to end or what the world will be like after, but whatever happens we’ll figure it out. We can get a little place in Harlem, stay near your family, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make us happy. I promise you’ll never have to feel helpless.” He takes a shaky breath and meets her dark eyes, shining with tears. “Eliza, will you marry me?”

\---------

Eliza comes in to dinner carefully, balancing the salad bowl on one arm without looking up from her phone.

“Is everything okay, Eliza?” their father asks. “Are you expecting a call?”

She looks up from her screen, startled. “No call,” she says weakly, “just Alexander. He’s coming over for dinner. If that's okay.”

“Wonderful,” he says sincerely. He’s liked Alex since the day he met him. Angelica had been privately worried that Alex’s class anxiety would get in the way, but he’s proven himself comfortable in every situation she’s seen him in. He and their dad have had long talks about politics and shared military backgrounds. “I haven’t seen him around here this week.”

“He’s been busy,” she says. “Nothing to worry about.” She looks back at her phone, rapidly clicking the home button.

Angelica rolls her eyes. “Eliza, if you keep looking at your phone and drop that salad I spent thirty minutes chopping vegetables for I’ll kill you.”

“Sorry!” she says and sets the bowl down carefully on the table before turning her full attention back to her phone, refreshing the screen compulsively.

Angelica turns back to her task of selecting the best piece of chicken, the one she slightly burned for herself specially.

Their mom likes him too, impressed by his studied, careful manners and willingness to expound on any subject she throws in front of him. She worries about all her children, but is calmed by how much Alex clearly adores Eliza.

Eliza drops her spoon, clattering loudly against her plate, and answers the phone.

“Hi! Are you here?” A pause. “I’ll buzz you in.”

She dashes off to the front room, returning a minute later with a windswept and rosy cheeked Alex. She shoves him in the chair next to hers and flits off to the kitchen.

“Mr. Schuyler. Mrs. Schuyler,” he says, reliable politeness overshadowed by the fact that he’s shivering. Does he not own a coat? She’s about to tease him about it when she remembers that he actually probably doesn’t.

"Where is your coat? It's freezing outside," Mom admonishes.

Alex shrugs, smiling easily. "Lost a button. My friend's fixing it for me, but I already promised Eliza I'd be here and there wasn't time to wait. Anyway, how are you? Eliza said you're visiting your sister's family upstate next week."

Liar. The army’s been short on supplies, and she read that the officers have been giving up their warm coats to civilians the British forced out of their homes. Alex clearly doesn’t have any back up winter clothing but is too much of a prideful idiot to tell anyone. Angelica digs her nails into her palms and tries to listen to her mother.

Eliza comes back in and deposits steaming mug of tea in front of him.

“Thank you, Eliza,” he says softly, looking at her with worshipful eyes as he wraps his long fingers around the mug tightly. She smiles back at him and lays her hand on his arm.

“So, Alex,” Peggy says. “How are things?”

“Things are pretty good,” he says, eyes wandering over to Eliza again. “Very good, even.”

Eliza looks back at him, eyes alarmingly large through the wine glass she’s quickly draining.

There’s something happening here, Angelica realizes with a weird sense of foreboding. There’s no way things are “very good”, the army is stuck across the river with nowhere to go while Congress pointlessly delays authorizing further engagement. Yet he seems happier than she’s ever seen him. She meets Peggy’s eyes across the table, who also looks intrigued.

“How is everyone holding up with the cold?” their father asks. “I was talking to Clinton the other day-”

“Alexander asked me to marry him and I said yes,” Eliza announces.

The entire table looks at her in shock, including her apparent fiance. Angelica feels dizzy.

“Well,” their father says, laying down his fork. “Is that true, Alex?”

He nods. “Yes, sir, it’s true. We’re getting married. With your blessing, hopefully. I didn’t think it right to ask permission, Eliza’s her own person and this is the 21st century and I would never infringe on her autonomy with patriarchal tradition like that. But I hope that you’ll all be happy for us. I love Eliza very much, and frankly I think we’re very well matched, considering that-”

“Alexander.”

“Yep.” He stops abruptly. “Anyway, she said yes, and we’re very happy about it. I am, at least, and I think that she is, too.”

“I am,” she confirms. He finally pries one of his hands off his tea to lace his fingers with hers.

Eliza looks at her family expectantly. “Are you going to say anything?”

"No eloping," Mom says sternly. "I've already been denied one wedding, we're not doing that again." She flicks her eyes at Angelica who makes a face.

"Ma, I sent you like a thousand photos, you were hardly denied anything."

"My oldest daughter gets married and I don't get an invitation? I mean-"

"Mom, it was like six months ago, do we really need to bring this up again?"

"And my youngest says she's 'not interested' in getting married, which I'm fine with, I am, I've come around-"

"Stevie's already been married! She doesn't want to go through it again," Peggy whines.

"Please don't upset your mother," Dad says sternly.

"I'm not upset! I'm thrilled that Eliza is going about this so responsibly," Mom says, typically passive aggressive. "Not that I would expect anything less, honey," she adds when she gets a glimpse of Eliza's irritated face.

"Well, we want to do it as soon as possible in case they have to move camp again," Eliza says challengingly. "I don't care either way if it's responsible, we're doing it."

"Rebellious" Eliza is back. She tried this a time or two in high school when she somehow got fed up of being treated like the near perfect child she was. Angelica feels bad, she knows that she and Peggy have stolen attention from her on many occasions, the announcement of her engagement apparently the latest. Alex, she notices, hasn't taken his eyes off Eliza the entire time.

She grimaces apologetically at her across the table which Eliza acknowledges with a small smile.

Peggy, unhelpfully, starts laughing hysterically. “I’m sorry, Eliza, I’m not laughing at you, that much, I’m very happy for you and I know you’ll pick a bridesmaid dress I look good in, I just,” she takes a moment to catch her breath, still giggling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just laughing at your idea of youthful rebellion being marrying a guy we all like and knew you were going to a little too soon.”

“Of course we’re happy for you,” Dad says. He stands up and shakes Alex’s hand across the table, who does so without letting go of Eliza’s. “Welcome, officially, to the family.”

Their mom tearfully hugs Eliza and Peggy starts teasing Alex again, and the room devolves into a familiar chaos she associates with all family dinners. Angelica gets up to kiss her sister. She catches Alex’s eye for a brief second before he looks quickly away.

The rest of the meal passes quickly in a whirlwind of wedding planning that reminds Angelica why she and John took a redeye to Vegas in the first place.

Peggy does dishes because she hates cooking, so Angelica decides to get ahead on her reading for class tomorrow while Eliza starts packing up the entire kitchen for Alex to take back to camp. He wanders into the living room and sits down on the couch, typing something on his phone. Probably work; she’s sure he skipped out early for dinner and is going back to stay up all night writing.

It's harder to be neutral when her Eliza's smile isn't right next to him, and she looks at his stupid, lovestruck face and something inside her twists.

“So!” she says, clearly startling Alex. Good. “How did you get her to marry you?” she asks, unable to keep the venom from her voice.

He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, but otherwise does his best to remain neutral. “I asked her before she had her morning coffee, that’s probably why she agreed,” he says lightly, a weak, half assed joke. He can do better than that. He's done better than that.

She rolls her eyes and looks back down at her textbook. “Eliza doesn’t drink coffee,” she says coolly, flicking a few pages forward.

“Yes, she does.” She looks up and he’s looking at her strangely.

His head’s tilted slightly. She’s never seen him do that before, but she has seen Eliza do it about a thousand million times. Something about it pisses her off even more. “No, she doesn’t,” Angelica snaps. “I’ve known her her entire life, you just got here six weeks ago.”

“When you’re here, you get up earlier than her and drink the last of the pot your father makes. She makes herself another one,” he says, still looking at her like he’s shocked she doesn’t know that, like she’s stupid. “If she’s running late there’s a bodega down the street from the train stop she gets off at. She likes the guy who owns it, he has a little kid that’s always coloring behind the counter.”

Angelica looks back down at her book. “Show off,” she mutters under her breath. She glances at Alex, who looks like he might be genuinely offended.

“She tells me things. I listen,” he says simply. “Anyway, that actually isn’t what happened. It was at night. I had to do it. So I did. I just asked her.”

This version of him is jarring. He isn’t spinning paragraphs to try to impress her, he isn’t fidgeting in his chair, isn’t scanning the room for someone to pick a fight with. He looks calm. She believes wholeheartedly that Eliza could do that, but is shocked that Eliza could do that to him.

"I'm glad you did," she offers. "She's very happy."

He smiles softly. "Thanks. Me, too."

She can't look at him any longer and goes back to her book, waving goodbye absently when he leaves.

Eliza comes back from the door and curls into Angelica’s side, who immediately drops her book and wraps her arms around her sister. She instantly feels bad for being such a bitch to Alex. Nothing matters to her more than Eliza. She’s achingly, blindingly thrilled for her sister, who deserves every good thing she’s ever had and more. Angelica can’t think of literally anything she wouldn’t do to make Eliza happy, and she’s glad that she’s found someone that takes that responsibility even one percent as seriously as she does. But when she remembers who exactly it is, she feels sick all over again.

“Are you staying over tonight?” Eliza asks softly.

Angelica wasn’t planning on it. John’s back in town tomorrow and she just washed the sheets. But Eliza’s head is a comforting weight on her shoulder, and her fingers are wrapped around Angelica’s arm just too tight enough for her to notice.

“Yeah, babe. That okay with you?”

She feels Eliza nod against her shoulder and relax fully. "Thank you," she says softly.

Angelica doesn't say anything, just hugs Eliza tighter.

\---------

Peggy starts up another chorus of clinking glasses, which Lafayette and Mulligan immediately join in and escalate. Alexander rolls his eyes and whispers something in Eliza’s ear before kissing her again to loud applause.

"Alright, alright! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Laurens whoops. “Now, everyone give it up for the maid of honor, Angelica Schuyler!”

Angelica stands up to another round of applause. “Thank you,” she says with a smile. Not for the first time, Lafayette is struck by how gorgeous she is, how sharp her eyes. “I’ll keep this short: the night is young, there’s plenty of alcohol left to drink, and unlike Alex, I’m capable of shutting up every once in a while.”

The groom blushes as his friends laugh loudly. Eliza giggles and whispers something in his ear that soothes him a bit.

“Sorry, Alex,” Angelica laughs. “We are all so lucky to be here in witness your union. I know I speak for everyone when I say the two of you give us hope for the future of this nation.”

The soldiers cheer, echoing her with shouts of, “to the revolution!”

“I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. And I’m so glad that she’s found someone that will make her as happy as Alex does.” Eliza reaches up and grabs her free hand, and the two share a smile and warm look.

“I wish you both all the happiness in the world.” Angelica wipes her eyes and squares her shoulders, looking beyond Eliza to Alexander. “May you always be satisfied.”

Lafayette watches as the smile drops from Alexander’s face for a split second before returning, wider and tighter than before.

Angelica turns back to the room and raises her glass. “To the groom!”

“To the groom!” the room repeats.

“To the bride!”

“To the bride!”

“And all my love, from your sister, who’s always by your side.” The guests applaud again as Eliza stands up and wraps her in a hug, both sisters teary eyed. Alexander kisses Angelica lightly on the cheek. Lafayette doesn’t miss his tight grip on the back of his chair.

The music gets louder and the DJ calls for the first dance. He watches the newlyweds spin around the dance floor, feeling drunk and happy for his friend. Angelica returns from the bar, leaving her husband talking drunkenly with Laurens, and takes the empty seat next to him.

“Share, _ma cherie_ , mine is empty,” he says, reaching for her glass, which she laughs and hands over. He immediately empties it.

“Gilbert!” she complains and hits him on the arm. “Do you mind?”

“Meow, we don’t need to use such names. I will get you another.” He waves down a waiter and grabs a few full champagne flutes. “That was a beautiful speech,” he remarks.

She looks at him sharply. “Please don’t.”

He takes another drink and pretends like he didn’t hear. “Why was it only you? I thought it is customary to have a best man and familial toasts as well.”

“It is, but Eliza insisted that we not. She didn’t want to draw more attention to the fact that he has no family here.”

They look over to where Alexander is spinning Eliza around on the dance floor, her laughter ringing brightly through the room.

“She really is amazing.”

“She is,” Angelica says with pride before her smile turns sour. “That’s what she told him. It’s also because she was terrified that he would make John be his best man when the two of them are still in love with each other.”

Lafayette sits up a little straighter, surprised. “She knows?” It's obvious to anyone that sees Laurens and Alexander together, but they've been trying so hard to keep their distance from each other. Alexander talks about Eliza as much, if not more, than he does Laurens these days.

She nods. “She doesn’t care, she knows that that’s in the past, and she and John get along okay. She was worried about John’s feelings. And rightfully so, as we both know Alex is so unbelievably fucking selfish that he would make John publicly bless his marriage to someone else barely three months after they ended things.”

“ _Merde_.”

“Indeed,” she agrees. “He seems to be taking it pretty well, though.”

“He has accepted it,” Laf affirms. “He is the one that kept them from going further. And he knows Alexander will always love him, even if Eliza is the best person for him.”

“God knows she’s too good for him.”

Hercules starts up another round of clinking glasses. They watch as Alexander cradles Eliza’s face so gently it’s physically painful to watch and kisses her lightly.

“Does she know? About...” he trails off. In the two months since they met, he and Alexander have only once discussed the incestuous position he found himself in. He probably should have pushed him further on it, but it was hard when Alexander was just so happy with Eliza. He couldn’t make himself do anything to stop that, not when he found so little joy in anything else, beat down by the stresses of war and his frustrated ambition, lost without Laurens, and carrying around the heavy baggage of his past. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was him. Although looking at Angelica’s uncharacteristically solemn face, Lafayette regrets the cost just a little bit more.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Angelica looks down and traces something with her finger on the tablecloth. “Yes.”

“How can you be sure? She reads him so well.”

“She wouldn’t have married him if she did. She’s too much of a bleeding heart, she would have insisted that I have him. Like another toy to share,” she laughs quietly. “Please. Like I could have done that to her. She was head over heels the second he looked at her.”

“You love him, too.”

“Alex and I slept together a few times a few years ago. And I’m married, anyway.”

"It was more than that, Angelica, do not lie. I can see it in your eyes.”

"You’re French, you see romance in everyone’s eyes,” she teases, not unkindly. “Maybe it was. But it doesn’t matter anymore. He chose her over me, over John, over his crush on you and every other attractive person he’s ever met,” she says, giving him a shove with forced levity.

He takes another drink.

"It's the potential that gets me. If it was just someone I dated for a little while I wouldn't feel this way," she says, staring blankly at the dance floor. "I liked him, a lot, and then he went to Pennsylvania and that was the end of it. I just wish that I didn't have to think about what might have been." She sighs. "And I love John, I really do. He gets me like no one else. But I guess I'll always wonder about Alexander."

“But he chose her,” he says for lack of anything else.

She presses her lips together tightly. “I hope he’ll be satisfied.”

“She is not like regular people to him.” Lafayette looks at her meaningfully. “He does not just love her, he worships her. If it was anyone less than Eliza, I would be concerned.” He grabs four more full glasses off the tray of a passing waiter. He passes one to Angelica and takes a gulp from his own before continuing. “After they met he swore to me that his life would be fine as long as Eliza was in it.” He pauses, remembering how excited his friend was, how his eyes shone every time he received a letter from her. “He cannot be rational about her. He thinks she is perfect.”

"I know. She saw right through him from the beginning. I thought I had him figured out, thought I understood his ambition and drive and saw his true potential, but Eliza gets him on a level that I don’t even think he understands. And even better now. She gets why he is, she can see all he has haunting him and knows all the right things to say. He’s told her about his childhood - she won’t tell me details, but it’s clearly horrifying.”

Lafayette takes another long drink. He knows he’s one of the few people Alexander has confided in, and he still only knows the broad details.

“He’s brilliant, we all know that, but he’s a fucking disaster, and no one knows that better than her. What happens when she pushes back? When she tries to stop him from diving down one of his rabbit holes? I don’t think he’ll know what to do.”

“He would never, ever, hurt her,” Lafayette swears reflexively in his friend’s defense.

“Not on purpose,” she qualifies. “But at some point he may have to choose between her and his ambition, and I worry it won’t be her.”

“Alexander would not,” he protests weakly. “It would break him first.”

Angelica says nothing, just gives him a look - her dark, knowing eyes so like Alexander’s - and finishes her drink.

Lafayette watches Alexander from across the room. He’s standing next to Eliza, arm wrapped gently around her waist, while some relative coos over Eliza’s dress. He’s never seen his friend look so at peace. He decides he can’t sit here and think about Alexander’s potential doom when he finally found some of the happiness he deserves.

He stands up and adjusts his jacket. “Angelica, _cherie_ , I am finally drunk enough to insist that you join me for a dance.” He grabs her hand and pulls her out of her chair with an encouraging smile, pulling her towards the dance floor. She hesitates for a moment, then visibly shakes herself back into the moment and returns it. They pass by the bar and grab Laurens and Peggy, dragging them and the rest of their friends into the crowd. He whirls Angelica around in a fake waltz to some pop song until she’s laughing and her eyes are shining again. The happy couple joins them and the rest of the evening passes in a drunken, golden haze.

But when Eliza and Alexander are whisked away, hands clasped tightly, for his honeymoon he’s taking his first week of leave in three years for, Lafayette doesn’t miss the way Alexander’s eyes linger on Angelica one last time.


	10. wonders great and small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you a lot, you know,” he says.
> 
> “I do. I love you, too.” She smiles up at him. “Do you love me enough to try snowmobiling again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter did not exist 24 hours ago, but my kids were like "dude, plz let us be happy before you ruin everything again." SO.
> 
> also this is a shameless plug but i just put up the other half of "a matter of time" and it's called "human" and it's 12k words of eliza pov and i'm stupid proud of the whole series if you are interested in some more pain.
> 
> EDIT: i saw this (https://twitter.com/Lin_Manuel/status/690964328082751489) right after i put up chapter 12 and it is so beautiful. plz use as inspiration for ham and eliza on their honeymoon.

_Ran to the store. Back soon._  
_- ~~E~~ ESH_

“Hello?” she calls, banging the door open loudly and letting all the cold air in with her. “Are you awake?”

“Even if I wasn’t I would be now!” he yells back at her.

“Sorry!” she yells, stomping in her heavy boots into the main room. “Hi.”

“Good morning, beautiful.” She flashes him a quick smile as she unwraps herself, pulling off all seven thousand layers necessary to leave the Schuyler’s upstate house for more than five seconds. Why they got married and went on a honeymoon in New York in February, he will never understand.

“I got bagels!” she says brightly, vaulting over the back of the couch and landing half on top of him, the bag partially crushed between them. She digs her own out and flops down onto her back, resting her head on his thigh, and biting into her bagel like it’s a sandwich and she’s some kind of uncultured heathen and not the greatest woman ever invented.

“Is there coffee?”

“Nah,” she says with her mouth stuffed full of breakfast. Somehow, he finds it adorable and is grossed out by himself. “But you can’t make any right now, I’m comfy.” He sighs, comically dramatic, and she rolls her eyes. “Get over it.”

He finds his own bagel and they eat in silence for a few minutes.

“You know,” he says, grabbing the post-it she left for him and sticking it on her forehead, “this doesn’t really compare to the kind of letters I’ve become used to.”

“Spoiled,” she says, smacking his hand away when he tries to smooth out the sticky part. “And unnecessary. We’re the only people around for two miles. We’ve spent four days together and have three more. Just ask.”

“Ask what?”

She shrugs, her shoulder bumping against his leg. “What do you wanna know?”

“Why do you eat your bagels like that?”

She looks at him in disbelief. “That’s your million dollar question? If I knew it was that easy I could have saved a lot of time writing you back.”

“I want to know everything about you, Elizabeth, and that means everything.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“See, another fascinating topic of discussion we haven’t yet come across. Shocking, really, when you think about the long month or so we've known each other. Why no ‘Elizabeth?’”

“Angelica couldn’t say it. She could just do ‘Eliza’ when I was born. It stuck. Four syllables is too long, anyway.”

“You call me by my full name, that’s four syllables. And you just doubled your last name. More than. 'Schuyler-Hamilton. That's five.”

“That’s different, I like your full name.” She pauses, thinking. “I don’t know. It never occurred to me to call you ‘Alex’ before and I feel like it’s too late. Why, does it weird you out? I have noticed that it’s really only me and Lafayette.”

He shakes his head. “No, I like it. A lot,” he says, feeling shy for some reason.

“Good. So do I.” She reaches up and pats the side of his face. “Anyway, I eat my bagels in this ergonomic fashion because it saves time and it’s less messy. We used to get them most mornings before school and you can’t take a bagel apart on the train.”

“That’s very practical and very boring,” he teases.

“Well, that’s who you married.” She smiles at the word. So does he- they both keep dropping it into conversation whenever they can. “What did you eat for breakfast when you were a kid?”

“Cereal, mostly, until Jamie learned how to make egg sandwiches. We weren’t allowed to use the stove when we were little and my mom didn’t have time to cook on weekdays.” It gets easier, every day, to talk to her about stuff like this. She’s so casual about offering up bits and pieces of herself that it makes it easy to share his own. “On Sundays she did though. She would make eggs with whatever meat we had left in the fridge. Rice, obviously, we were poor as shit and it was a good filler. Bananas, too. She fried them sometimes.”

“Sounds good,” she says simply. “Whenever we get normal mornings you can cook for me.”

He leans down, careless of the awkward angle, and kisses her.

“I love you a lot, you know,” he says.

“I do. I love you, too.” She smiles up at him. “Do you love me enough to try snowmobiling again?”

“Absolutely not. It is too cold to go outside.”

“Come on,” she pleads. “It’s gonna be sunny today! And we have really warm full body suits you can wear! Come see.” She gets up and drags him to the closet, pulling out an enormous black snowsuit with a flourish.

“Damn, Eliza, don’t put that on, I won’t be able to control myself when you look like the marshmallow man,” he says, pretending to cover his eyes.

“Shut up.” She climbs, literally has to climb into the suit, so stuffed full of whatever material makes things actually warm that the limbs hardly bend. She zips it all the way up to her chin and spreads her arms wide. “See? Warmth! Fun! Winter sports!”

He laughs. “Can you even bend your arms in that? How are you supposed to drive?”

“You lean, Alexander. It’s physics or something, I don’t know, I’m not a scientist. But it works.”

“Uh huh. Sure it does.” He taps the tip of her nose lightly, laughing when she can’t quite get her arm bent to bat his hand away. “Aha! This seems fun. You know how I like zippers,” he says, fiddling with the clasp.

“You won’t distract me from fun activities,” she warns, but her eyes are sparkling.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises. He unzips the suit and lifts her out of it, pushing her back against the wall and smothering her laughter with a kiss.

\---------

“Turn off the light.”

“I’m too tired to move.”

“Laurens, please, I am so tired.”

“Laf, I literally cannot move. We can sleep with the light on if you stop talking.”

Lafayette shifts huffily against his shoulder but shuts up. It really was a long day, their regular workload minus Alex’s superhuman speed and a six hour meeting prepping them for their trip to Paris next week. They’ll have two weeks to convince the French government to send another round of troops and wire them more money than John can even imagine to finish this off. He can’t even think in English at this point.

“What, no one works around here while I’m gone?”

John opens his eyes, and Alex is there, looking exactly the same and nothing like himself at the same time. He looks well rested, for what John imagines is the first time in his entire life. He hasn’t changed back into his uniform, wearing ratty jeans he’s probably had since high school and a conspicuously nice sweater that Eliza obviously bought him.

“We work too much, _ami_. Come here so I can hug you,” Lafayette orders sleepily.

Alex jumps up on the bed, somehow fitting himself into the nonexistent space between them, pressing one leg against John’s and wrapping an arm around Lafayette’s shoulders. “Miss me?”

“Very much,” Laf says. “Only your right hand, though. The computers were down most of the week and I hate writing in pencil.”

“How was the honeymoon?” John asks. He’s trying a new thing lately: faking it til he makes it. Alex’s marriage won’t bother him someday, so he just pretends like it doesn’t now. It makes Alex deliriously happy, seeing him and Eliza get along, and John can’t help himself when Alex is happy.

“It was good,” Alex says dreamily. “She made me do winter sports, which I hated, but it turns out remote cabins with nothing to do when it gets dark at three in the afternoon are good for other things as well.”

Lafayette groans. “We have not literally known the exact details of your sex life in an entire week, please do not recap what my ears so blessedly did not hear.”

“Fine, whatever. Where’s Herc?”

“Off on a mission,” John says. “He left right after the wedding.”

“He didn’t tell me!” Alex yelps indignantly.

“No shit, it’s confidential.”

“Whatever, he still could have said something. We made up a bunch of codes back in the day. Well, he did, and I used them. Anyway, what else did I miss?”

“We are going to France next week to rob my relatives blind,” Lafayette says. “It should be a grand time.”

“Who’s we?” Alex says, faking a casual tone. He’s intensely jealous, John knows, has wanted to do anything but his actual job that everyone else would kill for.

“Both of us. John and me.”

“What?” Alex twists out from underneath John’s hand, which has creeped onto Alex’s leg unnoticed by all parties involved. “When? For how long?”

“Next week, like I said,” Lafayette says without opening his eyes. “For two weeks or so.”

“What the fuck?” Alex says angrily, but looks more like a kicked puppy. “I just stay here like some asshole when I’m the one who’s been writing to the ambassadors for months?”

“I tried to get them to send you instead,” John says. “They wouldn’t authorize it.”

“Why not?” he demands.

“Alex,” John sighs, “we really don’t need to do this. Lafayette is going because he’s Lafayette. I’m going because you have had some help working with the ambassadors, dick, and because they think I can represent my father and all his rich asshole friends as a guarantee that we’ll pay the loan back. It’s bullshit, but that’s how it is.”

Alex jumps off the bed and starts pacing. “This is stupid. I’m more than qualified.”

“We know you are, Alexander,” Laf says gently. “But it is not going to happen this time. Besides, Washington needs you here.”

John winces, watching Alex’s face darken. That was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Yeah, he needs me here so he can make sure that my career goes nowhere,” he spits. “How long is he going to keep doing this? Am I going to be a forty year old secretary?”

“You know, most people would take the fact that the general relies on you so heavily as a compliment,” Lafayette says acidly. He doesn’t take too kindly to people insulting Washington, even when that person is Alex.

“He can keep it,” Alex says flippantly. “I just want to do something important, like you guys. Herc is off saving our asses doing God knows what, you guys are going to France, Burr has his own troops to lead, and I’m here all by myself.”

John and Lafayette exchange a look. So that’s what this is about. Alex fancies himself an enigma, with his hidden past and cheerful misdirection of personal questions, but he's painfully transparent to anyone who takes the time to actually listen to him.

Alex is still rambling. “Stuck here, alone, and I just had to leave Eliza and I’m going to have to spend the next week catching up so who knows when I’ll be able to see her again. So it’s just me here alone like an idiot.”

“Alex,” John says loudly, startling him out of his head. “We are right here. We’ll be in France for two weeks and then we’re coming back. You and Eliza got an apartment that’s an hour’s trip from here, and you’ll see her within a few days. Chill. No one’s leaving you.”

Alex looks down at his feet, mollified but unwilling to show it. “Herc is still gone. And Burr,” he adds childishly.

“Hercules will be back,” Lafayette says. “No one likes Burr anyway.”

“I do,” Alex counters, but he climbs back on the bed and shoves his way to the middle again.

“Fine, one person.”

John yawns. “Two, actually. He implied that he was seeing someone when I talked to him at the wedding.”

“What? He comes to _my_ wedding, eats _my_ unseasoned chicken meal and doesn’t even tell me that he’s dating someone?” Alex digs in his pocket for his phone. “I should call him.”

“No calling.” Lafayette bats his hand away. “Only sleeping.”

“Fine, daddy, whatever you say,” Alex says sarcastically, but cuddles into John’s side. “I did miss you guys a lot, you know.”

“We do know,” John says softly. “We missed you, too.”

\---------

_I miss you already. I would say it’s weird and obnoxious and grossly married of me, but I’m pretty sure you’re just as annoying as me and miss me too._

_I’m sitting in our new apartment, the one you’ve only seen in the photos I’ve sent you. I feel like I should be worried that I’m doing this on my own, kind of, while you make America for the next year or so, but I’m not. I still feel like it’s us, together. I can already see where you’ll leave your shoes, where I’ll hang some dumb sappy photos we can take together. I’m buying a table picturing you writing at it, a couch imagining us having sex on it, a chair I can see myself standing on to hang Christmas lights. It’s all so vivid to me. I know it’s more literal than you are, with all your metaphors and allegories and grand visions of what our life will be like, but it gives me the same kind of excited thrill I get when you talk about it. Obviously I know they’re just fucking throw pillows at the end of the day, but they’re also pieces of the life we’re building together._

_Tell me more, please. Tell me how great it’s going to be. Because I believe you, and I need to remember when you’re not here._

_I love you._


	11. you deserve a chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why not?” Eliza demands. “He's still a person. He still gets to have a life. It seems like I'm the only one that remembers that, and that's fine if it is, I'll fight the entire fucking world if that's what it takes to get him a decent nights sleep and some time with his child. But I shouldn't have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what happened either, but i'm writing a lot this week... one could say i'm..... non stop. i even wrote 3k of some dark and twisty jefferson/angelica that is unfortunately entirely unusable because i messed up the timeline and got their ages and subsequently the whole dynamic wrong. it'll hopefully make an appearance sometime soon if i can get it worked out.
> 
> ANYWAY. BACK TO PAIN.

Things get bad again.

Not two weeks after Alexander gets back from his honeymoon, they’re uprooting camp and moving back to Pennsylvania, to what seems as far as humanly possible from New York. Laurens and Lafayette are still in France, so it falls to Alex to pack up their things for the move. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, going through their stuff. Like they’ve died; maybe in battle, maybe after getting sick, maybe when John decides he actually can't take it for another day. He calls John at three in the morning France time and makes him reassure him that he's still alive. That Alex is still alive, too.

He tells Eliza and she freaks, working herself into a frenzy trying to make sure that he isn’t going off the deep end alone. He spends another late night on the phone trying to talk her down. If she was able to, he thinks she might have tried to move to Pennsylvania with them or try to get the guys to come home early.

In the move, he somehow misses a letter from her and before he realizes what he's doing yells himself hoarse at the poor girl that usually brings the mail. He feels guilty immediately after and apologizes, but he feels uneasy for the rest of the day. He writes her twenty pages that night and begs her to number hers and keep copies so he doesn't miss anything. She freaks out at that too, but she does her best to hide it, trying to live up to the idea she has that she has to be the strong one, the supportive wife. He hates burdening her like that when all she deserves is someone to make her life easy and happy and light, but he's used to being a disappointment.

They go back into battle, and he sits on top of a hill and watches other men and women die while he texts updates to Huntington, the latest leader of the inactive cesspool of ignorance and apathy that is their government. He liked Jay a lot better, though he supposes anyone would look better when compared to John’s piece of shit excuse for a father.

AH: Breaking for the night. 300 wounded. 174 dead.

SH: That's it? Tell Washington good job

He gets wasted after, alone and ignoring Eliza’s phone calls.

How can he possibly call himself a soldier when he doesn’t fight? He takes off his uniform, toys with the idea of resigning. He doesn’t think he can face the rest of his life when people ask him what he did in the war and he tells them that he wrote emails while two hundred people died in front of him, like some kind of fraud that doesn’t deserve to be an American and should probably go back where he came from where no one misses him because no one remembers poor kids that no one loves and he’ll never amount to anything if no one gives him the chance which he probably doesn’t deserve anyway and won’t get because life’s never been fair to him and he is just so, _so_ , so goddamn _tired_ of being denied his shot.

\---------

ESH: Come over ASAP not a drill

PS: ????? everything okay???

ASC: I can be there in 20 what’s wrong

PS: Same I’m out of class in a few

ESH: I’m fucking pregnant

PS: OMG BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ASC: CONGRATS

ASC: I’M AUNT ANGELICA Y’ALL

PS: IM CYRING IN CLASS

ESH: I can’t stop crying

PS: B A B Y

ESH: I know I should be happy but I’m not at all

PS: Wait what

ASC: What’s wrong

ESH: Please just come over guys

PS: I’m in a cab now

ASC: Be there in 10

Angelica lets herself in and hurries up the stairs to the small apartment Eliza and Alex share in northern Manhattan. He insisted on getting something the two of them could pay for themselves on their modest salaries. Never mind that he's never set foot inside and he actually hasn’t been paid in months due to general Congressional bullshit, and their parents are covering his half of the rent anyway. It’s the principle of the thing, with him, as always.

It’s been easier, since the wedding. What's done is done, etc. Angelica got wasted with Alex’s friends, who she adores, and let herself get her last passive aggressive jabs in. She woke up the next morning, more hungover than she’s ever been in her life, to John burning her bacon exactly the way she likes it and sixty photos on his phone of her hugging Eliza during her speech. He’s pretty fucking great, if she does say so herself.

Eliza is cross legged with a laptop on her lap, hair falling out of a messy braid and cheeks wet with tears. “I think I did something bad,” she says in a small voice.

“Whatever it is, it’s okay,” Angelica says firmly, secure in the belief that Eliza would never do anything truly wrong, and sits down next to her. She grabs the laptop out of her hands and looks at the screen, where Eliza’s email is pulled up. Her sent email, she sees. At the top is one to…. fuck.

Eliza maybe did do something bad.

“Is that actually his email?”

She nods. “Yeah. He gave it to me. He said to tell him if there was anything he needed to know.”

Fuck. Definitely bad.

Angelica takes a deep breath and steels herself. She clicks on the email.

_General Washington,_

_I promised you I’d tell you if there was anything you could do for me or if there was anything you needed to know about Alexander. There’s both. I’m pregnant, about two months along._

_Please send him home. I know he won’t want to go, he wants to fight and be on the front lines and he’ll never leave until it’s absolutely over. But I need him here. I can’t do it alone, and I can’t let his child grow up without a father. If you care about him at all, you know how important that is to him._

_I know that the war’s almost done, and he’s running out of chances for his stupid dreams of battlefield glory and being some kind of hero. He’ll do something reckless. Please don’t let him. Just send him home, to me, and I’ll make sure he stays alive for what comes next. The country needs him. I need him._

_Please don’t tell him I sent you this._

_Eliza_

“Eliza…” Angelica closes the laptop, her sister’s words spinning around her head. “Alex is going to be furious.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “I’d rather have him angry and alive.”

“Have you even told him about the baby yet?”

“... no.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Peggy, with her usual sense of good timing, pops in the door and cuts off whatever angry thing Eliza was about to say.

“What’s wrong?” she demands. “I thought you’d be happy about a baby.”

“Laptop.” Angelica points to it where it rests on the floor. Peggy grabs it and quickly reads the email, still pulled up on the screen.

“Oh, Eliza,” she sighs. “I wish you had called us first.”

“I still would have sent it,” Eliza says stubbornly. “He wanted to know things like that. And I don’t trust Alexander to not freak out about it.”

“Are you saying you haven’t told your _husband_ yet?” When she doesn’t answer, Peggy throws her hands up in the air. “Eliza. You need to tell him.”

“Why? So he can refuse to come home? Or worse, he’ll want to be sure that he proves himself to show off for his unborn kid, and he’ll be even more likely to get himself killed. No. I told the general, he’ll make sure he comes home. I trust him. He likes me.”

“You can’t make those decisions for him,” Angelica says. “I don’t think Washington will, either. All this accomplishes is you going behind your husband’s back to derail his career for selfish reasons.”

“Harsh, Gel,” Peggy says. “But true.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care about his career. He can’t have one if he’s dead,” Eliza says.

“You’re being selfish. Something else is wrong, what is it? This is so unlike you,” Peggy says.

“It’s not unlike me at all, which you would know if you actually listened to a word I said for once,” Eliza snaps. “If wanting Alexander alive is selfish, so fucking be it. The war is almost over, anyway. They don’t need him. I do.”

“Do you have any idea who you married?” Angelica asks. “Of course they need him. I don’t understand how you can talk to him for more than five minutes and not see that.”

“They’ll be fine. He’s done enough for the army. They don’t appreciate him anyway, they won’t give him a command like he deserves.”

“Jesus, you sound just fucking like him. You’re smarter than this, I know you are. Washington couldn’t be Washington without him, Eliza, it would all collapse without him,” Angelica says, voice rising. “Please tell me you understand that. Please tell me you actually give a shit about the war and how close we are to having our own country here.”

“Of course I do, Angelica, just because you’re smarter than me doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” she shoots back.

“Then how can you demand that he comes home? You know how important this is to him.”

“It is. You know what’s also important to him? Having a kid and being around for it, the way his father wasn’t.”

“Eliza, the war’s about to be over and everything is going to change. I know that you know this deep down, but I’m going to spell it out because this is important. I know you think Alex and his friends are literally the most annoying people alive, but they’re America’s first heroes. All that dumb shit they talk about? John and Lafayette going to France and bugging his rich family for cash? That’s them winning a war. Alex’s psychotic blog? That’s the beginnings of American political theory. Washington is probably going to be the prime minister, or president, or first senator, the leader of whatever kind of system we settle on here. Do you know what that means for Alex? He’ll be one of the most powerful men in the country before he turns thirty. He already is. Who fucking knows? He might even replace Washington someday! It’s not just you and him anymore, and it never has been. You don’t get to keep a man like that all to yourself.”

“Why not?” Eliza demands. “He's still a person. He still gets to have a life. It seems like I'm the only one that remembers that, and that's fine if it is, I'll fight the entire fucking world if that's what it takes to get him a decent nights sleep and some time with his child. But I shouldn't have to.”

Angelica bites back something that might be a sob. It’s not right that any of them have to risk dying, that so many promising young people are being swallowed whole by a war their parents’ parents planted the seeds of. By the greed of a king they never asked for a world away. She misses the days when the revolution was a bunch of new ideas floating around in the air, when liberty and equality and self evident truths were just something to theorize. The realities of it, the poor young lives lost in the effort - is it even worth it? She knows it is, deep down, but she can’t seem to remember why.

Eliza’s right. That’s the worst part. She’s absolutely right, and might be the only person who is. Alex deserves to spend time with his wife, deserves to watch his kid grow up. Deserves to be alive, period. They all do. Why does it have to all be so unfair?

Angelica swallows what she wants to say down and tries again. “Why don’t you tell him and let him decide for himself?”

“Because what if he chooses wrong? I don’t want to know, this early in our marriage, that he’ll choose his career over me and whatever family we have. And what if-” her voice breaks, and her eyes well up again. “What if he dies? Dies, knowing that he has a kid he’ll never get to meet?”

“He’s not going to die,” Peggy says soothingly.

“He might! Don’t lie to me, I’m not dumb. He could die and then what do I do? If he leaves me and his kid?”

“He won’t,” Angelica says firmly. “He’s not going to die. Washington will do his best to keep him alive, and the second he knows he has a kid waiting for him he’ll do the rest. He’s changed a lot since you met him, Eliza, and he’s not going to risk leaving you to raise that kid alone. Besides, if the British are going to get him, they will. He’s had a lot of opportunities to die and he’s still here.”

“That is so morbid, what the fuck,” Peggy says, eyes wide.

Angelica frowns. “I thought that was helpful. Zen, you know? Anyway, he’s not going to die. God forbid he does, you have us. But he won’t.”

“You’re both shitty at this,” Eliza mutters, but the fight’s gone out of her. “So am I. I never expected it to be like this. I mean I knew we were going to war, but it never seemed so real. And now I know them, they’re real people. It means something when things happen now.”

“It always did,” Angelica says, still trying to chase away the doubts. “This is the most important thing to ever happen in our lives. In history, maybe.”

“Yeah, I get what Eliza was saying though,” Peggy says. “It didn’t feel real before. Like I had heard of Washington and Alex and Lafayette and Laurens’s dad before we met them but it didn’t click for me.”

“Four months ago they were just names,” Eliza says, brow furrowed. “Now they’re like weird pseudo in laws. I’m twenty three and married and pregnant. I almost majored in gender studies, who let this happen?”

“Are you happy?” Angelica asks.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I mean not right this second, obviously, but I’m insanely happy. It’s soon, and it’s super fast and I’m not totally sure that I’m ready but I love him and I want kids and maybe it’s meant to be. Everything else with us happened too fast, why not this, too?”

“You think he’ll be happy, too?” Peggy shrugs. “I mean I’d think so, but I don’t know him as well as you do.”

She nods. “I really do. He’s crazy ambitious but he wants a real family so bad, you guys, it hurts to look at him when he talks about it.” She sniffs, wiping away a tear that’s a happier one this time. “I really am so happy. I didn’t know how badly I wanted this until it happened. I can’t believe I get to share this with him.”

“You’re so brave,” Peggy says, awestruck. “I mean it, for real. This whole world is crazy right now. Even if the war really is over soon, we don’t even know what things are going to look like in nine months. I would be terrified to bring a kid into that.”

Angelica hits her on the arm. “Jesus, Peggy, way to be supportive.”

She blinks, still lost in thought. “Sorry? Now I’m getting stressed out.”

“Way to be a stellar aunt, Pegs,” Eliza says dryly and lays back down, hand spread experimentally over her stomach. “Can I say something dumb and naive and have you guys not judge me?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t really worry about anything,” she confesses. “The war, or the government, or whatever. I would, if he wasn’t here, but he is. And he cares so much, and is so smart that it just reassures me that everything’s going to be fine, somehow.” She sighs. “As long as I have him.”

Angelica wishes, hopes, prays harder than she ever has in her life that Eliza gets to keep him.


	12. if i could grant you peace of mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to ruin this by fighting. I didn’t want to tell you when you were far away but you’re here now and we’re having a baby and I just want to be happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE YOU READ THSI GO LOOK AT LIN'S TWITTER RIGHT NOW THEY ARE DRUNK AND SINGING
> 
> also: I AM SORRY.

“Where’s your apartment?”

Alexander sits up, yanking his forehead away from the cool glass.

“What?” he says hoarsely, voice tired from lack of use. He hasn’t spoken since his last “sir, please” fell on deaf ears hours ago. Hasn’t raised his voice above a whisper since the last time he screamed “fuck you” at the only person who’s ever given him a chance.

McHenry rolls his eyes. “Your place, idiot, how do I get there?”

_Drive him home, McHenry. Make sure he gets all of his things, he’ll be gone for a while._

His apartment. His. The first place he’s ever had to call his own. It sounds weird.

“It’s, uh, 149th and Broadway. I don’t remember the exact address, let me find it.”

“I don’t understand how you remember exact coordinates from drops months ago but you don’t remember your own address,” James says good-naturedly, plugging it into his GPS.

_I don’t understand why you think you can do whatever you want. Who exactly do you think you are to question my intentions?_

“Got it. Should be there in twenty.”

It was ten minutes, maybe. Ten minutes stopping to talk to John, who’s been down lately, since he got back from France, and was staring off into space not working. Washington had summoned him, but it was only a few minutes, and John needed someone to make him smile.

“Cool,” he forces himself to say. “Thanks again.”

“No worries, man, I was going this way anyway. General’s orders.”

_You take every opportunity possible to overstep your boundaries, disobey orders, push rules to the breaking point. Enough. You’re done._

Alex doesn’t remember what exactly happened from there. Washington was pissed, might have said something in that stern, cold tone. That was probably what made Alex snap, made him start screaming about Washington trying to control him, trying to hold him back so he could keep him as his own personal punching bag and errand boy, jealous that Alex is smarter than him and could go further than he ever had.

He can’t recall when Washington’s tipping point was, which accusation he took particular offense to, but suddenly his legendary control was gone and they were yelling at each other so loud that Alex thought he’d never be able to hear anything but the sound of his angry voice for the rest of his life.

And then it was gone, and so was Alexander, without even a chance to explain or say goodbye to his friends.

“It’s this one, up here.” He points at the brown building he recognizes from the pictures Eliza sent him. He grabs his duffel bag, still all he has after five years in this country, and hops out of the car. “Thanks, James.”

He smiles easily. “Like I said, Ham, no problem. We’ll miss you.”

The car drives away. Alex looks up at the door and digs for the key she sent him, tucked into one of her letters.

_You have this bullshit idea that you’re the smartest person in every room. Let me tell you: you’re not. You’re a twenty five year old soldier in his first war. You’ve never done anything, never had to fight the way these men you so gleefully disrespect have. Who are you to call yourself better?_

He lets himself in the door. The apartment is comfortably warm, a respite from the brisk spring air outside, but he can’t relax.

He can hear music coming from the bedroom. A reasonable volume: Eliza doesn’t have thoughts she tries to hide from.

_Go home to your wife, Hamilton. Don’t let me see you back here again._

“Hello?” Eliza calls. Her total lack of worry makes his chest hurt. He's so glad that an unexpected person at the door is something good for her.

“It's me,” he responds.

She comes out of the bedroom, wearing a black dress and tights, heels held loosely in one hand. “Alexander?” Her eyebrows knit together. “What are you doing home?”

“Why are you so dressed up?” he counters, deflecting.

She stares at him, clearly searching for some kind of sign. “I have a fundraiser. Why are you here? What happened?”

“I really don't want to talk about it,” he says and looks down at his feet. There's a new rug beneath them. It’s a nice pattern. He likes it.

“That's fine,” she says gently. He’s glad he doesn’t have to look in her eyes right now, to see her freaking out and trying to help him. Another chance for him to be a burden. “Are you okay?”

He nods.

“Okay.” He can see her taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders without watching. “Well, you're not going to sulk here. Come in here and get dressed.”

She disappears back into the bedroom and he follows her without making a conscious decision to.

There's throw pillows on the bed. He stares at them as he unzips his suitcase. What a domestic, normal thing to have.

 _We both know you're full of shit and have nowhere else to -_ no, that one was years ago. He thinks.

He stares at his dress uniform. Can he still wear that if he’s basically been fired?

“Hey.” Eliza lays a hand on his arm, making him jump. She's still shoeless but has pulled her hair back in a bun and her lips are painted a darker pink than usual. “Just get dressed. We have to leave in ten minutes.”

“Okay.” Not like he has a choice, anyway, he doesn't have anything else nice enough for one of her work things. He puts it on quickly and glances in the mirror. He should probably get a haircut, he muses, retying his ponytail.

There’s a photo from their wedding on the nightstand, on the side where Eliza sleeps. He imagines her looking at it before she goes to sleep alone and wants to die.

Eliza pops back out. “You look great. Let's go.”

Cry, he corrects himself.

He follows the sound of her clicking shoes out the door and watches her lock it behind them. He stares at the pale skin at the nape of her neck exposed, her delicate fingers and the ring he bought her with all the money he had left in the world glittering on them.

“You look beautiful,” he says. That’s true. That he can cling to. It might be the only real thing he knows today.

She smiles softly at him. “Come on, Alexander.” She links her arm through his and steers them downstairs.

He hails them a cab, oddly satisfied by how quickly he's able to get one. He can do that much for her, at least.

She settles her head on his shoulder and laces his fingers with hers, anchoring him to her. “This is one of the bigger deals we’re doing this year. We've been doing a lot of smaller house parties lately, just because everyone's been busy and it's been hard to schedule things with all the fighting nearby, but the center does a spring gala every year. We thought about canceling but A. we desperately need the money, there’s more kids that need us than ever, and B. it’s the principle of the thing, we want to demonstrate that we’re here to stay even without funding from the crown.”

He presses a kiss to her temple in silent thanks. She continues to talk quietly until they reach the museum where the event is taking place. He can't seem to let go of her hand, but she doesn't mind, lets him trail her inside and to the check in table at the front.

“Eliza! Thank God you're here,” the frantic looking redhead behind the table says. “The Baker table has already emailed asking for two extra seats but they're already maxed, and Jess said she saw some senator tweet about coming tonight but we don't have him at any tables and Toi isn't answering her phone.”

“Do you have the latest copy of the table breakdown? I made a few edits before we sent to the printer this afternoon,” Eliza says, dropping her bag on the table and slipping out of her coat. She turns to him again. “Do you want to hang out with me or go look around? My sisters will be here soon.”

“I'll stay, if that's okay,” he says tentatively.

“Of course,” she says and hands him her phone. “Can you look through my emails and see if there's anything that might affect the guest list? Anything else just star for later.”

He nods and sits down, grateful for something to draw his attention. He knows what she’s trying to do and he appreciates it, even if there isn’t anything that can really help.

The redhead waves without looking up from her laptop. “I'm Nina.”

“Alexander. Eliza’s husband.”

“Very nice to meet you. She talks about you all the time,” Nina says absently. “We can talk more after we get all the money people seated and drunk.”

“Sounds good.” He smiles for the first time since leaving his room that morning. He talks about Eliza all the time, too.

Eliza sits down between them with her problem solving face on, and within two minutes the page is covered in her neat handwriting and Nina looks significantly calmer. He stares at her in wonder. He studies her intently, watches her flip through her pages, watches her tilt her head while she puzzles things out, watches her stop mouthing curses when something bothers her to smile easily at everyone and calm down her stressed out coworkers.

It's always been obvious to him that Eliza is smart and resourceful and good at her job, even if he never actually saw it in person. He _knows_ deep down in his marrow that she’s good at everything, but it's thrilling to see, and to see how much other people know it as well.

They're twenty minutes from the start of the VIP cocktail hour before the regular important people cocktail hour when a few kids from the orphanage arrive. Eliza’s pet project: having a few of the older kids help out at the various events, helping them practice networking and exposing them to different people and career paths. They adore her, obviously. Alex doesn't see how anyone could possibly not, but is immensely proud seeing three tough teenagers blush when “Miss Eliza” introduces them as her deputies for the evening.

The rest of the night passes in a muffled sort of niceness. Eliza directs him places; he goes. Her sisters are there. They’re both _nice_ to him, which he’s entirely unused to and would make him uncomfortable if he could focus on it beyond being unsettled whenever they call him “Alex” and not “nerd.” Angelica’s husband, who he remembers vaguely hating for some reason he can’t recall, sits next to him at dinner and takes away his third drink so casually Alex forgets to be annoyed that they keep talking about sailing.

They get another cab home, and he’s calm enough to rest his hand on Eliza’s leg, running his thumb over a run in her tights repeatedly, instead of clinging to her. She’s exhausted, he can tell. She always gets nervous before these things and wakes up too early to go over things she knows she already handled. Maybe getting sent home won’t be so bad if he can take care of her for once.

Not yet, it seems.

“Do you want to talk about it now?” she asks when they get back to their apartment.

“Can we-” he kicks at something invisible on the ground. “I appreciate it, I really do, but can we wait until tomorrow? Please?”

“Sure.” She sounds a little nervous, still, and he wishes he had a sign to give her that things were actually okay. “Can we talk about something else important?”

That startles him a bit. “Yeah, Eliza, whatever you want.”

“Can you unzip me?” She tilts her head in that way that means “come here” and he does. He steps a bit too close, but she just smiles up at him and turns around.

He does, slowly, carefully, letting his knuckles drag lightly along her spine. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into him, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She stiffens.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed. He loosens his grip, hand catching on a distinct curve that wasn’t there the last time he held her.

She knows immediately, he can feel it, and turns around, eyes wide. “Alexander-”

“How long have you known?”

“A month or so.”

“Eliza,” he chokes. “A baby?”

“Yeah. I’m-”

He cuts off whatever she was going to say, pulling her into his arms, holding on to her so tight he thinks they both might never be able to get free of each other again. He wouldn’t want to anyway.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair.

“So you’re happy? Please say yes.”

“I am happy,” he says. “I thought you were all I ever wanted, but it turns out I wanted this too. We’re a real family,” he says, getting a little choked up. “Thank you so much.”

“Stop saying that,” she says softly. “This is ours.”

\---------

They stay in bed the next day, whispering and giggling and trading names. He makes her breakfast, like he promised he would, and lays his head on her stomach, swearing he can hear the baby’s heartbeat. He never thought he could be this happy.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, Washington’s angry voice ringing in his ears.

_Go home son don’t want to see you who do you think you are get out go nowhere else to go nowhere else to go home to your wife nowhere else to go nowhere nowhere nowhere_

“Alexander?” she asks dreamily. “What’s wrong?”

“You should have told me sooner,” he says, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

He can feel her stiffen next to him, the fog of sleep evaporating. “I was going to, but you weren’t in the right head space,” she says, rolling over to look up at him where he’s sitting against the headboard. “And…”

“And what?” Is the baby okay? If something happened and he wasn’t here to stop it, to protect her, to protect their child, he’ll never forgive himself.

“I wrote to the general a month ago.”

He inhales sharply. “No,” he pleads. There’s no way she could have known what happened earlier. She couldn’t have.

“I begged him to send you home.”

_Go home go home go home go home go home nowhere else to go_

“You should have told me, why wouldn’t you tell me?” he demands.

She shrugs. “I’m not sorry.”

“Eliza,” he says desperately. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is our child, why wouldn’t you say anything?” He stares at her bare stomach, at the gentle, pronounced roundness there. “I would have come home.”

“Are you sure? Because,” she says, voice rising nervously. “I knew you’d want to fight until the war was done and I didn’t want you to have that hanging over you.”

“The war’s not done, I still have so much to do. I’m going back, but I would have come home,” he says, trying to convince himself.

“Don’t go back,” she whispers. “Please. I need you alive. The baby needs you. You should get a chance to meet him.”

“Eliza-”

“Don’t go back. Stay."

“I can’t go back,” he confesses. “Washington sent me home. We got in a fight, he said I was disrespectful and he told me to go home and that he didn’t want to see me again.”

She freezes. She looks frighteningly young, lying there in just a t-shirt, the light from outside making her eyes look unfathomably dark in comparison to her skin.

"Is it-" she swallows. "Is it my fault you got sent home?"

"No. I don't know. Probably not. Actually, no," he says. "I stopped to talk to John instead of rushing up to sharpen his pencil for him or what the fuck ever and he freaked out. I told him to go fuck himself. This one's entirely on me."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be, Eliza. Honestly, I'm surprised it took this long for him to get sick of me and send me packing. But anyway, now you’re stuck with me, because I have nowhere else to go,” he says bitterly. “I know that’s not what you thought you were getting when you married Washington’s ‘right hand man,’ but that’s what happened. Are you prepared to be broke? I’ve done it before, for a long time, but it’s not like you have any idea what that’s like. Being a poor man’s wife isn’t what you signed up for, sorry about that,” he says, trailing off into broken laughter. “Sorry about everything, really.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, sitting up and reaching for his hand. “I don’t care about money. I don’t care if I’m a ‘poor man’s wife’ as long as I’m your wife.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Are you a ‘rich girl’s husband?’” she asks tightly. “Let’s not reduce each other to that, please. We both deserve better.”

“You do,” he agrees.

“Stop, please,” she begs. “I don’t want to ruin this by fighting. I didn’t want to tell you when you were far away but you’re here now and we’re having a baby and I just want to be happy.”

“Well then you shouldn’t have married me,” he says coldly. “Sorry I’m such a fucking disappointment.”

He yanks his hand out of hers and rolls away from her, digging the heels of his hands into his ears and trying to quiet his mind enough to get to sleep.

\---------

She goes back to work the next day.

He tries to. He texts Laurens, Lafayette, McHenry, everyone, begging them for updates.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s sent an email to Washington telling him he’ll resign for real if he doesn’t get his command.

When she comes home, he’s too busy writing a follow up that somehow ballooned to two thousand words long to look up.

She goes straight to the bathroom, morning sickness apparently being evening sickness for her. He yells her name until she comes back out. He needs her to read this before he sends it.

“What?” she says, sounding worn out.

“Does it sound better to say that it’s his ‘deep, disgusting jealousy’ or ‘deep, disgusting paranoia’ that keeps him from promoting me?”

“That’s it,” she says decisively. “You need to see someone. You’re worrying me, and I can tell that something’s not right.”

“Don’t psych major me, Eliza,” he snaps.

“Don’t be an asshole, Alexander,” she repeats, doing that sickly sweet, passive aggressive thing he hates. “I’m serious. This behavior isn’t normal for you. You shouldn’t have to feel this way.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sneers. “Just because you took a few psych classes in college doesn’t mean you know shit about my 'behavior.' I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten that you’ve only had a few months of observation. Your ‘diagnosis’ doesn’t mean shit.”

“I’m not scared of you,” she says stubbornly. “And I’m not backing down. You need to see someone.”

“I don’t need to do anything except finish this paragraph.”

She reaches around him, irritated, and tries to shut his computer. He hisses with wordless anger, yanks it out of her grasp.

“Alexander, please, just let me make an appointment.”

“Fuck off,” he says dangerously. He’s never pushed it this far with her before, and a sick part of him wants to see what she’ll do.

“Do not talk to me like that,” she says slowly, deadly calm.

He keeps typing. “If I do it again, will you actually fuck off and let me finish this paragraph?”

“God fucking damnit,” she swears under her breath, voice thick and wrecked. “I just figured you would want to know why you’re having such a hard time lately, especially when mental illness is often hereditary and WE HAVE A BABY ON THE WAY.”

She slams the door to their bedroom behind her.

\---------

When he looks up again, it's dark and he's written another two thousand words.

He's thirsty, incredibly so, and gets up to go get a glass of water before coming back to his computer and looking over what he wrote.

He scrolls through the pages, disturbed. This isn't what he was writing all day. He was supposed to be writing an argument to Washington, convincing him to take him back and give him a leadership role. The words on his screen are some kind of disconnected rant, about financial systems and human trafficking laws and he can't really tell what else.

He finds a paragraph that's just _nowhere else to go_  repeated over and over and over and swallows. Shit.

He goes to find Eliza, something in the back of his head asking if he actually wants her or if he just has nowhere else-

He pauses, pressing his fists into his eyes, trying to make himself stop.

He opens the door. She's sitting against the headboard, knees drawn up to her chest, reading - or attempting to, if her fingers fluttering against the cover are any indication of how not absorbed she is.

"Hey," he tries.

She looks up. "Hi."

"I'm sorry," they both burst out at the same time.

"What the fuck are you 'sorry' for?" he says incredulously.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you," she says in a rush. "You're having a really hard time and I meant what I said about you not acting like yourself and it's not your fault and I was mean instead of helping and I should have been there for you instead and I'm sorry." She sniffs, clearly fighting back tears.

"Eliza, Jesus, I was acting like a huge dick. It's not your fault you got mad when I was deliberately trying to piss you off."

She shakes her head. "But I _know_ better, I know you're not yourself. I shouldn't have."

"Yes, you should have," he says seriously. "I'm so sorry, Eliza, I shouldn't have acted that way. You were only trying to help. And," he says cautiously, "I think you might be right."

She doesn't say anything.

"Will you do it? Make the appointment?"

"I kind of already did. I called one of my professors."

He blinks. "Okay then."

"Are you mad?"

"Not at you, no."

"Come here?" He hates the question mark, hates her tentativeness, hates being the one to make her feel that way.

He sits next to her and she turns into him slightly.

"What do you think is wrong with me?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing's wrong with you, that's not what I mean when I say that you should see someone to talk about your mental and emotional health," she says firmly. "I think you might have bipolar disorder. It would explain why you feel depressed sometimes, why you find it hard to remember what exactly happened in traumatic situations, or why you take your really amazing work ethic a little too far when you're feeling upset. I think that you could try some different things that could make you feel better."

"Okay," he says. He doesn't want to leave her hanging, but he's thinking, a lot, about how she might be right.

"Alexander?" He turns his head to face her. "What do _you_ think is wrong with you?"

He lets out a shuddering breath. "A lot."

Her hand tightens on his arm. "But what? Specifically?"

"I don't know," he says, frowning. "I think about it all the time, why don't I know?"

"It's okay," Eliza says, sounding very not okay but cutting off his rising anxiety. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out, and we'll fix it. Okay?"

"Okay," he says, reaching for her and locking his arms around her, feeling her shaky breaths expand and contract in her ribs. "Thank you."

"Stop saying that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry. i'm v upset too. BUT THIS IS GOOD AND HEALTHY and everything becomes happier after this (for a little while) and i can channel all my pain into the jefferson/angelica thing i'm writing for some unknown reason that has become 4k words this week.
> 
> thank you, as always, for reading! your comments and figuring things out that i'm trying so hard to do and picking out the same little details that i lose my shit over when i think of them literally make me smile like an idiot when i see them.


	13. the world turned upside down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They won’t be the same people, come the morning. He’ll have the command he always wanted, she’ll be a young woman with a baby on the way and a husband that might leave her a twenty three year old widow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made myself so emotional (not SAD. just emotional) writing this i had to skip ahead two chapters and add one of the most grossly happy things i've ever written.
> 
> all discussions of mental illness are based on my own experiences and google for clarification, and are not meant to be representative of anything as a whole.

He and Eliza go to see her professor (he can’t call her ‘the therapist,’ no matter how hard he tries) the next day. Eliza tries to make it fun, drags him to lunch at some place that serves pretentious healthy food he’s never heard of and buys him a fifteen dollar salad, but all he can think about is that he’s never done this with her before, that until they got married he had never seen her during normal daylight hours. He tries to focus on the way the sun slants across her face, but he can’t stop drumming his fingers on the table and looking around the room. He leaves at least six dollars of salad on the plate.

She’s trying very, very hard to make this casual, to put him at ease. He remembers John mentioning offhand how she stressed him out, not as much as Alex did, obviously, but he didn’t know, man, it’s not a big deal she just kinda did, okay? which had stressed Alexander out, worrying that John didn’t like Eliza and maybe she didn’t like him and two of the most important people in his life hated each other and would never want to spend time together and make everything horrible and difficult and sad for the rest of his life.

When John looked up from whatever he was writing, he hit Alex gently on the shoulder and told him to stop freaking out, that if he could still love Alex after all the times he’s woken him up in the middle of the night for some lengthy discussion then obviously he can deal with his girlfriend making significant effort to be nice to him.

Alexander gets it now, a little, the way she’s desperately trying to keep conversation light and herself smiling despite how clearly worried she is only stressing him out trying to make her feel like it’s working. He has to leave her in the waiting room when they get to his appointment. He’s not sure who he’s more worried about.

Eliza’s professor is okay. She scares him a little in the same way that Angelica does, anticipating what he’s going to say and refuting his arguments before he even makes them.

She takes off her glasses with a little sigh of irritation when he tries to pick a fight about where she went to college instead of just admitting that he’s uncomfortable with the prescription she gave him.

“Alexander,” she says evenly. “I know you don’t think that mental illness is something to be ashamed of. A prescription doesn’t mean that you’re ‘crazy’ or that you’re out of control.”

“I know that,” he says peevishly. “I’m not stupid. Or ignorant.” He is uncomfortable, though. It’s one thing to understand objectively that mental illness is a real thing that happens and is just another part of life, and another to come to terms with it in himself. His mind is all he has, all he’s ever had, and he’s having a hard time grappling with the fact that he apparently can’t control what goes on inside.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees. “Don’t act like it.”

“I’m not!”

“If Eliza was the one that needed medication, you would tell her that she was weak because of it?”

He stops tearing apart the unnecessary tissues she gave him when he walked in and looks up furiously. “Absolutely fucking not,” he snaps. “The last thing Eliza is is weak and if she needed something it wouldn’t mean anything.”

“Then why doesn’t that apply to you? Are you better than Eliza?”

“What? No!”

“You have some kind of superhuman ability to regulate every part of your brain chemistry and she doesn’t?”

“No! No one does! And if anyone did she would!”

“Ah,” her professor says, leaning back with a self satisfied smile.

“That doesn’t mean anything, you tricked me into it,” he mumbles accusingly.

“You’re too smart to be truly tricked. Take the prescription, Alexander, and if it doesn’t work you can tell me how wrong I am. I’ll see you next week. We can discuss your idolization of your wife then.”

Eliza’s eyes light up when she sees the paper in his hand, finally thrilled to have an actual solution, something concrete she can do to fix everything. She gets them matching pill containers, puts all the prenatal vitamins he spent the morning researching in hers, his little blue pills in his. It should be annoying but instead it just makes him laugh.

After about a week and a half, Eliza starts texting him every hour, asking him how he’s feeling, what he’s doing, what his plans for the rest of the day are. He gets kind of annoyed before he remembers that his new medication is supposed to start working after ten days. She, as usual, is right on time and expects everyone else, including his mood stabilizing chemicals, to be.

He doesn’t know how he feels, to be honest. It appears that he doesn’t know what a normal, healthy mental state is, being bipolar and all, so he supposes he really isn’t qualified to say that he feels good. He does feel okay, he thinks. He sees her professor every week, which might be helping. He thinks he likes being home with Eliza, although he doesn’t understand how anyone wouldn’t, so that probably isn’t any indication of his mental state.

He does still get upset when he thinks about what happened with Washington, but he doesn’t feel quite as much like the walls are closing in on him. Alexander sends him another email, though he knows Eliza’s professor probably wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t apologize exactly, he still can’t bring himself to do that, but he makes a significant effort to be polite and offers to do some work remotely until he comes back. He does specify that he’ll only come back as the commander of his own unit, which is probably not respectful or whatever, but he doesn’t really care. It must sound something like normal, because Lafayette sends him a screenshot of it with “really??????? you are shameless” and twenty laugh/crying emojis.

Washington doesn’t respond so he does his best to try to put it out of his mind, distracting himself with things he’s always liked and never had enough time for.

He likes waking up next to Eliza and not having to slip out of bed before dawn to get back to camp or shake her awake and put her in a cab back to her apartment. He likes hearing about her work, likes going to visit her at lunch time and hanging out with some of the kids.

He likes having all day to read - between high school and clerking at the trading company, college, and the army, he’s never had anything like free time before. He gets in touch with a few of his old professor’s at Kings who let him turn in a few papers for credit towards his degree. He even sees Burr sometimes, who resigned because of health issues and is actually enrolled at Princeton again. He finally annoys the details of his secret affair out of him, and is ecstatic when he finds out that Burr is going to have a kid that can be his kid’s first friend.

He likes documenting the slow, steady expansion of the bump under Eliza’s clothes. He bought every baby book he could find at the bookstore down the street from their apartment (another thing he likes) and read them all in a few days, using up multiple packs of post its marking passages he thought were important. He needles her until she lets him measure her stomach. He decides their baby might be ahead of schedule and is probably a genius, and she laughs before telling him she had two lunches today and their baby is going to be perfectly normal.

He likes it so much he almost doesn’t pick up the phone later that summer when Washington finally, finally calls.

\---------

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.” She’s pressed so tightly against him all he can see is her eyes, and he remembers another, easier night, one when their whole lives stretched out in front of them. Tonight feels horribly final. They won’t be the same people, come the morning. He’ll have the command he always wanted, she’ll be a young woman with a baby on the way and a husband that might leave her a twenty three year old widow.

It’s not that he’s not thrilled. He’s getting everything he thought he ever wanted. But when he was younger, all his dreams of glory never included this, the way her hand fits perfectly over his heart, the uneasy anticipation of shopping for cribs. He had no idea how _much_ else there was.

“Why do you call yourself an orphan if your father’s still alive?” she asks quietly.

He feels like he should be caught off guard, but he isn’t. Somehow it feels like everything she’s asked him has been building to this, the one last thing about him she thinks she doesn’t know.

“Because I’d rather be,” he confesses. “I’d rather him be dead than not want me.” He tries his best to breathe normally, focusing intently on the shell of her ear, counting backward from ten like Eliza’s professor taught him to. “I’ve always wondered why. What could possibly be so wrong with my mom and my brother and me that he would leave.”

He looks back at her. Her eyes are shut tight, a pained look on her face. He watches as she exhales and opens them again. “Alexander,” she says shakily. “You know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

He looks down, tries to twist away but she locks one of her hands around his wrist and keeps him facing her.

“Please, Alexander, tell me you know it wasn’t your fault. Please say you know that,” she says, voice rising even though he can tell she’s trying very hard to stay calm.

He tries to sound out the words, tries to say them. He doesn’t see why it matters, to say something that’s obviously objectively true, but he’ll say it if it makes her happy.

“I -” the words stick in his throat. Why is this so difficult? He’s mastered every other sentence, every word he’s encountered in three languages, wrote his way out of hell and talked his way to the top. Why the fuck can’t he just say it?

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” she says vehemently. “Nothing. We can fix that.”

A dark voice in the back of his mind wants to ask why it needs to be fixed if there’s nothing wrong with him, but Eliza’s professor said that he can ignore those, so he does.

“Jesus. I’ve never be able to not talk when I wanted to,” he mutters.

The edges of her mouth quirk up. “They won’t recognize you when you go back.”

He forces a smile, more for her benefit than anything else, that slides into genuine when he pictures John and Laf and Herc’s surprise if he came back with a new appreciation for silence. He almost laughs when he imagines telling Burr.

“Can you - can you try something else?” she asks hesitantly.

“Anything.”

“Promise me you won’t die.”

A year ago he wouldn’t have been able to, wouldn’t have been sure what he might have done in the name of glory. But the stakes are higher now, not just for him, but for the country. Freedom isn’t just an idea anymore; it’s a promise, it’s just over the horizon. Their future, whatever it might be, is taking shape right before his eyes. He thinks back on his dreams of dying a hero and pities himself for thinking that was the best way to be remembered. These days, all he wants to be known is as someone good enough for her.

“I promise.”

He says the words, both of them sighing in relief when he does, and they feel like the most real thing he’s ever known, something he can hold on to. Maybe he’ll never be perfect, never fix all the cracks his past left in him, but at least he can stay alive and not leave her alone.

\---------

Washington has been waiting, all day, all his life, really, for this moment.

“Sir,” the aide who replaced Hamilton turns to him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. “They surrendered.”

“Is it over?” Hardin whispers, radio abandoned, her whole posture tense and on edge with anticipation.

“Not yet,” he says. “Not until I talk to Cornwallis.”

The whole tent is silent, waiting. This being real life and not a movie, it takes a few minutes to get Cornwallis on the phone. They’re still waiting, watching, and he isn’t used to the weight of quite this many eyes.

“General Cornwallis.”

“General Washington,” the other man sighs heavily. “We surrender. I’m sending an aide over with terms.”

An aide? Washington is furious for a brief, sharp moment. After everything, after all the young men and women he watched die for this, Britain sends _an aide_ to finish the job? A small, petty part of himself wanted the moment for himself, but if America is ever going to be equal to Britain, he can’t go, can’t negotiate with anyone less than their commander in chief. This moment will go down in history, the symbolism is critical.

He forces back six years (a lifetime, who is he kidding) of resentment and focuses. “I’ll have Lincoln meet him.”

“Fine. Congratulations. You’re on your own,” he says petulantly and hangs up.

He turns back to the room. “Now it’s over. We won.”

“We won?” McHenry asks, hesitantly, like he doesn’t believe it.

“We won.” He feels himself smile.

“WE WON!” A chorus of cheers erupts and suddenly they’re all running out of the tent. Washington follows, and has never been so happy to see an army running back towards camp, screaming and crying and clinging to each other with a joy so powerful he didn’t know it was possible.

He hears a particularly loud, familiar shout; he looks down and Hamilton and Laurens are hurtling across the field, two halves of a whole, paces matched exactly and both of their long, wild hair falling loose from their ponytails, trailing behind them like fire. He knows without seeing that they’re headed towards Lafayette, who literally vaults over an overturned gurney to throw himself into their arms.

He watches from the top of the hill, overcome by this thing he helped build, by these lives he held in his hands and kept safe and helped free, even if he couldn’t protect them all. He looks out over the countryside - Yorktown isn’t so far from Mount Vernon - and he imagines what all these bright, shining young minds might do.

The trio turns to him at some point, maybe a second, maybe an hour later. Lafayette screams “ _mon general_!” like the ridiculous, over-enthusiastic, impossibly young man he is and they sprint up the hill to ambush him, three sets of pushy arms hugging him, three ecstatic voices yelling “we won,” “thank you,” “we won we won _we won_ we won.” He knows he needs to maintain a certain dignity, knows that the father of a nation can’t be seen playing favorites, but he can’t seem to make himself care. The three of them, his aides, his boys, together, happy, safe, whole - it’s almost too much, this happiness he never expected to find on a battlefield.

They won.


	14. what to say to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s still kind of baffled that the two of them have lost it this completely. The past three months have been like a J Crew ad, with Alex and Eliza as the perfect young couple and Philip the adorable prop baby.

_Dear Philip,_

_Hi, baby! Welcome to the world. I guess that whenever you’re old enough to read this you’ll have been here for a while, but to me you’re still new._

_Your father has tried and failed to write to you about a hundred times. He keeps throwing away earlier drafts, whining about not being able to find the word he’s looking for. You’ll probably come to realize that this is unusual behavior. The first thing he said when he saw your face was “look, he’s smiling,” and I’ve never seen him happier. I’ve never been happier. Alexander usually chooses his words right the first time._

_I, on the other hand, have come to realize that it’s not always about saying the perfect thing, that letters (and love) are more about the action of writing in and of itself, trying to share part of yourself even if it isn’t a perfect picture. The trying is the important part, the effort to make someone you love happy. And that’s why I’m writing to you, my five day old, tiny, perfect son. Right now you’re sleeping, but it’s four in the morning and you weren’t an hour ago. It’s okay, I still love you. Anyway, I’m writing this because I want you to know who your parents are, who I am, when you’re old enough to realize that we aren’t just the hands that feed you. You should know where you came from, who you came from, and the things we did and didn’t do to make you who you are._

_I want you to know a few things, and never forget them. If I do anything right, at all, you’ll know: You are good, you are enough, exactly the way you are. You are loved, more than you can ever imagine, by me, your father, and so many others. You can be exactly who you want, achieve anything you can dream of, and you are worthy of such dreams. You can do anything._

_You’re waking up now. I can’t wait to see who you’ll be._

_Your mom, Eliza_

\---------

There is a horrible, horrible ringing happening.

“What the fuck is that?” Angelica mumbles.

John groans next to her. “Hell.”

“Make it stop.”

“Hell is eternal.”

That wakes her up. “You are so dramatic, JC, I swear.” She sits up and it’s suddenly clear that the ringing is her phone. “It’s just my phone.” She has six missed calls from Eliza. Shit.

“Bets? What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong with Philip! He’s coughing a lot and he won’t stop!” she says hysterically. “Can you come drive us to the hospital? I don’t want to take him in a cab, those things are germ monsters and I don’t want to take the train.”

Angelica jolts fully awake, something like a chill stiffening her entire body. “Eliza,” she says slowly, “slow down. Is it a cold or is it out of the ordinary?” She hits John on the shoulder. “Get up, we have to go get them,” she whispers. He nods sleepily and rolls out of bed.

“I don’t know! The book said some coughing is normal but this is a lot and I don’t think it’s normal.”

“I don’t trust these fucking books,” Alex yells, aggravated, in the background.

“You’re the one who bought them!” Eliza yells back, sounding far away.

“They’re all written by British scientists that didn’t want us reproducing and being burdens on the Empire.”

“We don’t have time for your insane conspiracy theories! We need to take him to the hospital, something is wrong.” She must turn back to her phone, sounds clearer when she says, “Angelica, are you coming? Please?”

“Yes, Eliza, we’re coming now,” she soothes, shoving the phone into John’s hands as she slips on the sweatshirt he brought her. He puts it on speaker, and she can hear tiny little baby coughs and Alex’s frantic attempts to soothe him in the background. “Do you want us to get Peggy?”

“No. Yes. No, don’t wake her up, she has class tomorrow.”

“Okay. We’re walking out the door now, we’ll be there in ten.”

“Thank you, I love you, see you soon,” Eliza says. And then louder, to Alex: “They’ll be here in five minutes, put Philip in his car seat!”

Angelica hangs up.

“What’s up?” John asks, ushering her out the door and out to their car with a steadying hand on her back. She loves him quite a lot in this moment, the way he yanked himself out of bed in the middle of the night with no explanation simply because she asked.

She sighs. “Philip is sick. I really don’t know if it’s serious or not, but they’re both freaking out and need a ride to the hospital because they’re idiot infant dumbasses that have a child but not a car.”

“Ah.” He’s so good at that, putting so much into one word, concerned and comforting and confident all at once. It puts her at ease.

“Thank you,” she says softly, reaching out to fix the hood of his jacket where it’s bunched up behind his neck. “I know you’re tired.”

“No thanks necessary, love, and you know I mean that. Your sisters are important to both of us.”

“Yeah. They are.”

He smiles faintly, but he’s too uptight to look away from the road so she messes with the radio until they get to Alex and Eliza’s.

She’s about to call Eliza, but the door opens before John can even put the car in park.

“Hi, John, hi, Gel,” Eliza says briskly, loading herself and the base of Philip’s enormous, barely used car seat into the car and strapping it in efficiently. “Alexander, give me the baby.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “We’re not going to a hospital unless absolutely necessary. Do you know how dangerous emergency rooms are? Philip could catch all kinds of diseases. Someone going through withdrawal could try to hurt him. Or you. The doctors are sleep deprived, they might do something wrong, Eliza, we can’t go to the hospital, we can’t go there.” He looks so genuinely panicked that Angelica feels almost as bad for him as she does for Eliza, who can’t stop drumming her fingers on the seat.

“Alexander, get in the car.”

He kicks at the tire, clutching Philip tightly to his chest. “No.”

Angelica is about to intervene when Eliza yells, “GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!”

He gets in the fucking car and straps Philip in. John starts driving before any further drama can erupt from the Hamiltons.

“Kings - sorry, Columbia, right?” he asks. They nod without looking up from Philip’s face.

Eliza takes a deep breath, shoves her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Alexander, I know this is hard for you. Just breathe.”

“It’s okay,” he says, staring moodily at their son.

“It’s not,” Eliza insists. The two of them share a look, something passing between them that Angelica doesn’t understand.

“Fine. I accept your apology,” he says carefully, like the words are foreign in his mouth. He grabs Eliza's hand and they both relax a little.

Angelica and John both recognize the opening at once and leap in, desperate to keep them calm.

“How long has he been coughing?” John asks gently.

“Since this morning,” Alex says. “He’s had all his vaccines, so I’m pretty sure it’s not whooping cough, but we can’t know.”

“He was coughing a lot,” Eliza adds. “The books said it was normal for some as long as he could breathe okay but it was a lot and he wouldn’t go down to sleep and they said that was bad.”

Alex looks like he wants to say something else about the books - which, like Eliza said, are the ones he bought when she found out she was pregnant and read obsessively - but thinks better of it. “Why can’t we just call someone?” he asks her, like they’re still at their apartment and they aren’t already halfway to the hospital.

She sighs. “Who can we call? Do you know any doctors that could make a house call?”

“Actually-” John, who actually does know a doctor who could make a house call, tries to say but is cut off.

“I don’t know anyone in this country except you and other twenty something assholes like me. No one had time to go to medical school. I don’t know if you noticed, there was a war,” he says petulantly.

Eliza’s shoulders stiffen, which has never and will never be a good sign. “Well, before?” she demands. “Who do we know that has a kid?”

“What did I just say?” Alex scowls. “I don’t know anyone! You’re from here! Don’t you have like eight thousand cousins or were those just extras at our wedding?”

“I don’t like any of them enough to call at two in the morning.”

Angelica muffles a laugh. She, Eliza, and Peggy really do have like eight thousand cousins and have never been close with most of them. They used to get in trouble for “excluding” the others from the trio's little secrets and games and whatever. She once almost lost out on a trip to the waterpark for telling them they were just jealous. She still thinks they were.

“Well, fuck, I don’t know!” Alex throws his arms up in the air, raises his voice louder than is necessary in a car. “Everyone I went to high school with has kids already but I don’t have any of their numbers.”

Angelica winces. Eliza always goes doe-eyed and sad whenever Alex alludes to his Tragic Backstory, and they really don’t need another flavor of meltdown on their hands.

“That isn’t fucking helpful!” she shrieks.

Maybe not.

“I’m just throwing out ideas! We can handle this. We have to handle it. We are PARENTS, we made A HUMAN and we can deal with one bad thing. We got this.”

“Please promise me we aren’t reproducing any time soon,” John says under his breath.

“A fucking men,” she agrees, squeezing his arm.

She’s still kind of baffled that the two of them have lost it this completely. The past three months have been like a J Crew ad, with Alex and Eliza as the perfect young couple and Philip the adorable prop baby. Eliza is an amazing mother, to absolutely no one’s surprise, and has another three months left of maternity leave before she plans to go back to the orphanage part time. Alex has been home a lot too, finishing his degree, helping Washington finalize the peace agreements, and even appearing on the news a few times to argue for this policy or that. The rest of the time he spends gazing lovingly at Philip sleeping in his crib, gazing lovingly at Eliza holding him, lying on the floor with Eliza, both of them gazing lovingly at Philip playing with some mobile or whatever. It was disgustingly sweet, and Angelica would have made fun of them more if she hadn’t watched Alex smile for the first time since they came back from that funeral in South Carolina when the doctor placed Philip in his arms.

Philip coughs again.

“Fuck, there’s another one.” Alex rips off his seatbelt so he can loom over the carseat. “What’s wrong? What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” she moans, her head dropping to Alex’s shoulder. “Tell me he’s okay.”

“He’s okay,” he says uncertainly.

Eliza narrows her eyes. “That wasn’t convincing at all, why can’t you be supportive? I shoved this child out of me and you can’t fake reassuring once in a while?”

“I don’t know what to do either! I’m freaking the fuck out, I don’t know if you’ve noticed!”

Angelica can’t take this any longer. “You guys,” she says loudly, turning around to look at them over the back of the seat. “Neither of you are being anything close to productive.”

“Don’t yell, you’re going to wake him up,” Eliza says.

Angelica takes a slow, deep breath as she tries to restrain herself from punching her baby sister that she loves, very, very much, just maybe not in this moment, in the face. John doesn’t even bother to stifle his laugh next to her.

“You guys love each other very much. You are parents. That is your child, who you love very much. Act like it.” She gives them a steely glare and is pleased when they both nod like the bratty children they are. “Good. We’ll be at Columbia in two minutes. Do you want us to wait with you?”

“You don’t have to,” Alex says hesitantly. Eliza bites her lip and nods.

“Okay, well, I can wait and Angelica can take a cab home?” John offers.

“No, I’ll stay,” Angelica says quickly when Eliza’s eyes go impossibly wide. How is she supposed to leave her? “John, you can go. You have a long day tomorrow.”

He shakes his head. “You hate driving,” he says, correctly. “I’ll stay too. You know how I love American vending machines.”

She can’t stop herself from grinning at him, and even now, she can’t miss Alex watching them in the rearview mirror.

“So we’re staying. That okay?”

“Yes,” Eliza says vehemently. Alex nods and stares broodily at Philip. She hates him so much sometimes.

“Cool,” John says easily as they pull up to the door. “Angelica, you wanna go with? To supervise?” he adds under his breath.

She hides a smile from Alex and Eliza. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with them for very long,” she warns and kisses him on the cheek before ducking out of the car.

\---

Philip turns out to be fine, obviously. Alex and Eliza both get emotional apologizing for snapping at each other. John drops them off at their apartment and Angelica hangs out for the morning, reading with Philip asleep on her chest and letting them get some rest.

ASC: Hi

ASC: So

JC: I know I think I want a kid too

ASC: :) :) :)

\---------

Alexander had never appreciated the quiet this much in his life.

But he did now, now that it meant Philip was asleep and Eliza’s mouth was otherwise occupied, moving her way down his chest, lips leaving a scorching path down further, and further, and - wait, that’s way too far. He sits up with a start, grabbing her gently by the shoulders and sliding his fingers under her chin to kiss her again.

She jerks away almost violently.

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting so weird?” she demands. “Why won’t you just fucking let me suck your dick?”

His mouth drops open and he gapes at her, terrified and aroused. “I’m… sorry?”

She glares at him. “Do you not want to have sex with me anymore? Am I all used up? My vagina isn’t ruined because I gave birth, you fucking idiot, I’m only twenty four and I refuse to be someone who only has sex on anniversaries and Valentine’s Day when I don't even hit my sexual peak for six years!”

“Eliza, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Are you not attracted to me anymore?”

“Jesus, no,” he says vehemently. “I mean yes, obviously I am, of course I am, so much so.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?” she asks, cheeks flushed a dark red.

“How am I acting weird? I can’t stop if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“You aren’t acting at all like you used to and it’s because you don’t want to have sex with me anymore,” she says accusingly.

“Eliza,” he says cautiously, “we had sex two days ago.”

“Yeah, boring and missionary and lame! We are not those people!” she almost yells. “You never send me inappropriate texts anymore. You freaked out when I tried to get in the shower with you the other day and you barely looked at me which has never happened before. And now you won’t even let me suck your dick because you know you won’t be able to finish because you aren’t attracted to me anymore and you’re an asshole.”

“I was trying to not be an asshole!” he says defensively. “You just had a baby, Eliza, our baby, and all the books said it might be a while before you wanted to again and I didn’t want to pressure you and you had our son, Eliza, our perfect son that you made in your body and I can’t make you do that, I can’t just _shove my dick_ down the _mother of my child’s_ throat, for fucks fucking sake.”

She opens and closes her mouth. He can see the gears spinning behind her eyes.

“That’s very sweet, Alexander,” she says finally. “Also annoying. You have never, and will never, make me do anything I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry! I was trying to be respectful and shit.”

“‘Mother of my child’, Jesus,” she scoffs. “I’m still me.”

“I know you are,” he says reassuringly. “Obviously I still want to fuck you, like, all the time. All the time. But I also respect you. And love you, a lot.”

“I know you do, idiot, and I love you too. You really have quite the Madonna-Whore complex, you know?” she says, kind of jokingly, kind of sadly. “Very Freudian.”

“I’m gonna to tell your professor you’re trying to take away her billable hours,” he mock-accuses.

Like that’s possible. He and Eliza’s professor had discussed exactly that, the whole complex thing, last week after he had finished showing her the latest pictures of Philip. He knows he deals in absolutes, in extremes when it comes to people. It took two whole sessions of fighting and sulking before she could get him to admit something he didn’t like about Eliza - that sometimes she might be a little too desperate to have everyone like her, which is fine, but it makes her swing between overly passive, too afraid of saying the wrong thing, and making her act like a smiling, over-friendly robot. He felt guilty immediately.

So they’re working on it. He knows that people are flawed, but to him liking someone has always meant that he likes them and ignores their faults. Eliza’s professor is insistent that liking someone actually means that you like them regardless of their faults, which sounds nice and healthy, if a bit foreign.

She laughs and the tension is gone. Well, one kind, anyway.

“Can we start over?” he asks tentatively.

She nods and pushes him onto his back. “Stay.”

“Yes ma'am.” He salutes dramatically and smiles at her responding giggle. “I wonder what Freud would have to say about that,” he says, breath hitching when she palms his rapidly hardening dick.

“Probably that I have penis envy,” she quips, nipping at his hipbone. “Which I do. You haven’t let me do this in a while. I am very envious.”

“You’re right. I am the withholding mother that Freud warned us about,” he says, fighting to keep his tone even while she gently wraps her lips around the tip. “Shit,” he hisses.

“Hmm,” she agrees, humming slightly while she slides her mouth down, down, down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my children have a child!
> 
> thank you for reading! your comments and love and liking these two idiots as much as i do makes me so happy.


	15. the word i'm looking for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hercules arrives right on time (the instructions on the invitation were very explicit) to Alex and Eliza’s house the next day with the greatest first birthday gift of all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy a (mostly) lighthearted interlude.

HM: What am I supposed to get Ham’s kid for his birthday

GL: I am bringing french versions of the Lion King, Mulan, etc

GL: All the best disney movies

GL: I know Alexander and Eliza have every Baby Genius video ever made but these are important too

HM: Ugh thats such a good gift can I split it with you

GL: No he will see through that in a second

GL: He is taking this very seriously

GL: He would have made me fly in from Paris if I was not already in Virginia visiting mon general

HM: Do one year olds even know what birthdays are

GL: No but Alexander does and it is his first son. Hopefully he will calm down soon I hear they are trying for another one already

HM: SMH

HM: I’m have to get it something awesome I’m cool Uncle Herc

GL: Maybe start with not calling Philip ‘it’

HM: You right. Whatever I’m going shopping and you have to help I’ll call you from the mall

Hercules arrives right on time (the instructions on the invitation were _very_ explicit) to Alex and Eliza’s house the next day with the greatest first birthday gift of all time: child size boxing gloves with “P. Ham” on the wrists. If Philip has a temper anything like his fathers, he’s sure they’ll be useful. Let Laf’s movies try to top that one.

Eliza opens the door. “Hi, Hercules,” she says warmly and hugs him tightly, surprisingly so for someone that looks like a children’s book fairy princess. “We’re so glad you made it.”

He grins and steps in out of the cold. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’m excited to see the little guy in person again.”

“C’mon, he’s in here.” He hasn’t been to the new house yet, but they upgraded to a small townhouse last year when Alex started getting steady income from the legislature. Eliza leads him down the hall into the kitchen, where everyone seems to have congregated. He recognizes Eliza’s sisters and is pleasantly surprised to see General Washington and his wife talking in the corner with her parents.

Alex drops his conversation with one of the guests Hercules doesn’t recognize when he spots him. “Aw, shi-” he cuts himself off, looking down with alarm to where his exact miniature is using Alex’s pant leg to pull himself up to a standing position.

“You made it!” Alex exclaims with a grin, picking up the kid before hugging him. “How have you been?”

“I’m good, Ham, how bout you?”

“He walks now,” Alex says, shaking his head in horror. “He’s everywhere, like a two foot hurricane destroying everything in his path.”

“So just like his father then.” _Just_ like. They're wearing matching sweaters. He could puke, it's so sweet.

“Rude!”

“And better looking. Let Uncle Herc say hey,” he says, motioning for Alex to pass his son over. “What’s up, little dude?”

Little Philip looks at him with huge, curious eyes, before deciding that Hercules’s tie is more interesting and pulling on it.

“Kid’s got taste." He turns his attention back to Alex and looks at him critically. He looks well rested for once, which he knows is crazy: he finished up his bachelor’s in the year after he resigned from the army, finishing just in time to go off to Congress in November and start working towards his law degree at a terrifyingly accelerated speed. He loves being a father, never shuts up about his son. He sees Alex every now and again, but has only twice met the kid before today. Alex more than makes up for it by sending constant photos. “You good?”

Alex nods seriously. “Yeah, man, I am. You?”

“Me too.”

“Where is the birthday boy?” Lafayette bursts into the room, dramatic as always, pausing briefly to pick up a giggling Eliza, spin her around, and kiss her on both cheeks before making a beeline for his friends.

“ _Bonjour, mon petit ami. Je suis ton oncle Lafayette_ ,” he tells Philip seriously. They’re almost eye to eye with Philip balancing on Hercules’s hip. Philip laughs and starts grabbing at Lafayette’s curls where they’ve escaped from his ponytail. “He only laughs! He does not understand me,” he gasps with mock horror. “Alexander, have you not taught him his languages yet?”

“He’s one, Laf, we’ll get there. Do your kids speak English yet?”

“It is never too early,” he admonishes, even while crossing his eyes to Philip’s delight. “Did you hear that, Philip? _Il est jamais trop tôt._ Do not worry, I will make him bilingual before the night is out.”

“Yeah,” Hercules laughs, “do baby Virginia and George Washington Junior know where their names came from yet? Those poor kids. I almost hope they never find out just how weird you are.”

"You know I asked His Excellency what he thought about GWL and he almost blushed," Alex says gleefully. "I tried to get a picture before he kicked me out."

Lafayette ignores them and continues making faces at Philip. Hercules clears his throat. “Nice to see you too, Gilbert.”

“Who is Gilbert?” Lafayette gives him a hug. “Hello, my friend. It is good to see you. And you, Alexander. You are both well?” He too, abruptly turns serious and looks searchingly at both of them. They both nod. “You are sure?” he prods.

The three of them haven’t been together since Laurens’s funeral more than a year ago. It was a rough weekend for all of them, especially Alex, considering all he and Laurens were (and then weren't) to each other. He refused to let Eliza comfort him after Laurens’s death, alternating between snarling at her and clinging to her and her enormous pregnant stomach. They probably should have been able to predict that it would have been the sight of John’s daughter that would have set him off, but no one thought to prepare him and suddenly he broke down, bolted for the parking lot at the wake and needed to be talked out of punching Mr. Laurens. The girl looked exactly like John, all eyes and curls and tight, angry little fists exactly like his. Her sad, confused face had haunted Hercules’s dreams for a while.

But Hercules is okay now, and Alex does seem better, as much as he probably can be, and they’re all going to be just fine.

“All good, Laf,” Alex reassures him. “How’s France? They miss you?”

“My people longed for me every day, yes. It was quite nice, King Louis threw a reception for the returning soldiers. I danced with the queen and she did not laugh at me this time.”

Herc snorts. “This time?”

“Alexander,” Eliza calls and beckons him over. He takes his son back and goes to her side, his face lighting up when he sees who she’s talking to.

“Well, if it isn’t Aaron Burr!”

“Sir!” Burr completes the rhyme with an indulgent smile.

“Yo.” Herc nudges Lafayette. “Check it out.”

Burr stands with an older woman, holding a little girl with his solemn eyes and a riot of curls.

“I did not know he had a kid,” Lafayette whispers. “Did you?”

“I didn’t even know he was interested in human beings! I thought he was an android!” Hercules and Burr have never been close, and Laf had followed his lead, his own reservations about the man confirmed when he found out Burr didn't think Washington was the greatest human being ever alive like Lafayette does. Hercules has never really understood why Alex gets along with Burr so well when they're so different, but he's long past trying to understand.

The mystery woman (Mrs. Burr???) laughs at something Eliza says and they both strain to eavesdrop.

“Theodosia turns one this month, too,” she says with a faint British accent. “I didn’t realize they were so close in age.”

“Oh my god,” Hercules whispers excitedly. “Did you hear her accent? Is that the officer’s wife?”

Lafayette closes his gaping mouth with an audible click. “No…. it cannot be.”

“I think it is! She is hot! And older! Laurens was right!”

They both freeze for a second.

Lafayette shakes himself out of it first. “Should we say hello?”

“Do we have to? It’s Burr.”

“Yes, you do,” someone says behind them.

They turn around quickly, and Angelica is standing behind them with her arms crossed and a devastating smile. “Gentlemen.”

“Angelica, cherie, it is good to see you.” Lafayette gives her a kiss and slings an arm around her shoulders. “I hear you are moving to London soon, we will be neighbors!”

“Only if you stay in Paris,” she chides. “If you hide in that ridiculous palace in the country I fear I’ll never see you.”

“It is not a palace,” he corrects reflexively. “It is only suitably large to hold many wonderful guests such as yourself.”

“Uh huh.” She rolls her eyes at him fondly. “You two really should go say hi to Burr. I know you don't like him but Alex likes having all his people together. It'll make him happy.”

“Maybe we should let them catch up,” Hercules says, avoiding Angelica’s piercing glare.

Lafayette nods. “Yes! You are right. We would not want to, how you say, intrude.”

“Don’t ‘how you say’ me, idiot, you speak perfect English.” She ducks out from under Laf’s arm and shoves them towards the hall. “Go.”

Whatever looseness had crept into Burr’s smile evaporates when he sees them. “Mulligan. Marquis de Lafayette,” he says with a barely repressed sigh. You’d never know he and Alex were laughing loudly not twenty seconds earlier. “Have you met Theodosias one and two?”

“Burr has a one year old too!” Alex announces, unnecessarily but with great joy. He’s the only one smiling genuinely, although Eliza’s looking at him like he single-handedly created America as usual, like the other people who helped aren’t standing right next to them. “Philip is two weeks older, though, so I win.”

Burr scowls fondly, which Hercules didn’t think was possible. “I beat you to passing the bar.”

“Because I’m busy legislating, Burr, I’m creating a nation. You practice the law, I am the law.”

Hercules is the only one to actually laugh out loud, which earns him a grin from Alex and a glare from Burr. They fall back into an awkward silence that only Alex doesn’t seem to notice.

“Lafayette, will you two take Philip to say hi to the General now that he’s calmed down a bit?” Eliza prompts gently, giving them an out.

“Of course! _Allons-y, petit petit leon_ ,” Lafayette says and takes a squirming Philip from Alex, dragging him over to the Washingtons.

Most of the guests filter out within the next two hours. After Philip makes a mess of himself with his cake and spends a while ripping off wrapping paper and ignoring his gifts entirely, Alex takes him upstairs to bed while Eliza opens a few more bottles of wine for the lingerers.

Alex, Angelica, Burr, and a few others crowd around the island, arguing loudly about pensions and back pay and God knows what else. He’s been friends with Alex long enough to tune him out when he gets like this. Hercules is passionate too; but he, unlike Alex, has an interest in not attracting too much attention.

He’s been helping rebuild the intelligence networks, or build what they’re calling the CIA. It’s crazy, to be honest, how fast everything is moving. Most of the senior people from before the war are still loyal to the crown, so Hercules has risen to almost the top of the ranks. He doesn’t exactly have a low enough profile to do actual espionage, Washington’s open acknowledgement of his work during the war giving him a very modest amount of national fame, but he does a lot of the organizational work and is building something he’s really proud of.

He also, unlike Alex, doesn’t keep whispering with gleaming eyes in his sister-in-law’s ear while someone else is talking.

Hercules remembers all too well their little fling and how Alex struggled with it when he first met Eliza. Instead of keeping his distance, Alex seems to be making up for his lingering discomfort with the situation by flirting outrageously with her. Granted, Alex flirts with everyone he meets, regardless of age, gender, or marital status. He treats innuendos and battling wits like it’s a game he loves winning. But with Angelica, it’s like an extended game of chicken: “Just casually flirting with my brother/sister in law! It’s only weird if we have actual feelings for each other which we DEFINITELY DON’T and NEVER DID!” Hercules doesn’t know Angelica that well, but she and Alex are scarily alike and he recognizes that determined look in her eyes, the resolute set of her chin, and her refusal to back down. They smile and bat their eyelashes at each other and only drop the act when the other leaves the room. It’s dangerous, the way they provoke each other, daring the other one to react and reveal what they know.

Lafayette sees it too. He comes over and leans against the kitchen counter next to him, taking the spot Peggy left open when she went to call her permanently absent girlfriend. “Why is he like this?” he sighs.

Hercules shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought getting married would be good for him.”

“To be fair, it has been on most levels,” Lafayette points out. “He looks like he gets regular sleep sometimes and owns multiple pairs of socks.”

They watch as Alex, blatantly not listening to someone else making an argument, stares adoringly at Eliza, rosy cheeked from the wine and laughing with Theodosia Burr.

“Look at him jumping between the two,” he says. “What is that?”

“She idealizes him,” Lafayette says.

“Which one?” Hercules says, taking another drink.

Angelica thinks he's the smartest man alive, plays him like a fiddle, gets him worked up and passionate and yelling about banks and liberty and pushes him to new heights. She lets him act like an arrogant asshole, as confident in his genius as he is, gives it right back to him but eggs him on. He pulls out all the stops to impress her, dancing from topic to topic, hiding his nervous twitches with a grin. He’s never so on as he is with her.

Eliza thinks he's the best person in the world, watches him hold their son with glowing eyes, lets him hold her hand while he (still, even now) pushes the bounds of Washington’s patience. He’s his best self around her, less moody and snappish and dickish for the sake of it. All she has to do is tilt her eyes up at him and he’ll drop a line of conversation, letting someone else get in a word for once, stops yelling himself hoarse for the sake of it. He seems calm, around her, the tight line in his shoulders relaxing incrementally as he gets nearer to her.

“Both,” Lafayette says.

“Yeah,” Herc sighs. “He loves Eliza so much, why can’t that be enough? He should just forget about the whole sister thing, neither of them are ever going to say anything.”

“He is so self-destructive,” Laf grumbles. “He is so happy but he still cannot stop himself from trying to ruin it.”

“She really doesn’t know?” Herc asks skeptically. Eliza looks up from her conversation, gives them a look like she can see right inside their heads. It’s unsettling.

“As far as I know. Angelica said as much at their wedding.” His friend looks disbelieving as well.

Eliza excuses herself, gets up and goes to the kitchen, presumably to grab another bottle of wine. Alex grabs her hand as she walks by, raising it up to place an absentminded kiss on the inside of her wrist. Eliza gives him a fond smile before leaning in to whisper something in Angelica’s ear, and the sisters share some kind of knowing look, like they know every secret in the world.

“Still, it seems it is for the best that Angelica is moving,” Lafayette says.

Hercules frowns. Eliza’s flitted back over to Theodosia, flashing them a small smile as she goes, and whatever had so intrigued him about the moment seems to have evaporated without a trace. He can't find the right word for it anyway.

Alex yells something about taxes, and Angelica’s laughter rings throughout the room.

“Yeah, no shit.”


	16. blow us all away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Eliza very, very healthily don’t really discuss Alex’s future, both preferring to brag about whatever he’s accomplishing that day and not acknowledging that there’s a lot more on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going non-stop style with this one. if lmm can skip through like 10 years in a single song then i can skip a year between scenes. anyway, the first scene is 4.5 years after the last chapter, around the time of the constitutional convention and the other 51, etc. philip is almost 6, angelica ii is almost 3, alex ii is 1.5.
> 
> also i know author's notes in this vein are obnoxious, but it's probably a good time to remind you that this story is intentionally told from lots of differing perspectives and that all of them are unreliable, especially ham, especially about eliza.
> 
> ANYWAY. thank you so much for reading, as ever. if you're interested in some fucked tjeff/angelica, i've put that up as well. called "my declaration."

“Aunt Peggy?”

“Whassup, Pip?”

“This is boring.”

“Yeah, it kind of is. But it hasn’t started yet, this is just the waiting part.”

Alex the First shifts sleeping Alex the Second to his other shoulder so he can glare at Peggy over Philip’s head. “This isn’t boring,” he says indignantly. “This is your mom’s big day.”

“How long do we have to wait?” Philip asks, kicking his feet into the thankfully empty chair in front of him.

Alex checks his watch. “Twenty more minutes.”

“And then Mom gets her prize?”

“That’s right.”

“What prize?” Angelica asks suspiciously, back from taking her own Philip and mini Angelica, both almost two years old, to the bathroom. Peggy doesn’t understand why her older sisters are so obsessed with naming their brand new kids after the same three old people, but she has fun trying to come up with nicknames to keep them all straight. Whenever Angelica decides to grace their side of the pond with her presence, that is. It’s even harder today, with the original Philip Schuyler and their mom sitting on John’s other side, chatting away with some couple they recognize from somewhere old rich people go.

“Mom’s getting a prize for being the smartest lady in the whole world,” Philip tells her seriously.

“Oh my god,” Peggy says, a little choked up, and hears Angelica do the same next to her. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time, but she settles for hitting Alex gently on the arm not covered in sleeping baby.

“What?” he huffs. “It’s true.”

Eliza started working towards her masters a year ago, right after mini Alex was born. In fifteen months, she finished a dual degree in Psychology and Fundraising Management and celebrated her thirtieth birthday a week after she took her last final. She still found time to spend two days a week at the orphanage and juggle all three kids when Alex had to be in Philadelphia for the Constitutional Convention, because, as Peggy has always known, her big sister is a literal saint with powers beyond all imagining.

She never even complained, either. It was pretty obvious that Eliza didn’t love Alex being away so often, but she knew that he didn’t either. They made it work. For now, Peggy supposes. It’s pretty clear that Alex isn’t stopping at a term in Congress or at being a lawyer, successful though he is. Alex and Eliza very, very healthily don’t really discuss Alex’s future, both preferring to brag about whatever he’s accomplishing that day and not acknowledging that there’s a lot more on the horizon.

Eliza freaked out (though only to her sisters) when some magazine did a _“War Heroes: Where Are They Now?”_ story that featured a full page about Alex, all about his exploits in Congress and how he got his law degree so quickly, with an asterisk at the bottom noting _“Hamilton married Elizabeth Schuyler in 2009. They have 3 children.”_ One of Alex’s idiot friends mailed him a framed copy that he hung in his office and Eliza pretends not to see. Eliza’s always been selfless, generous, and kind, but she’s also private and more insecure than she’d ever let on. She doesn’t love sharing Alex with everyone else.

It would be easy to hate Alex, to yell at him for not appreciating Eliza and putting her second to his work, but it’s hard when Peggy looks at his dumb, off-puttingly sincere face and every line of it just screams loving her.

“You are so embarrassing,” Peggy says fondly. She helps her niece into her lap. “Right, Ang?”

“Right,” she agrees. “Your mouth is pretty.”

“Thank you,” Peggy says, muffled slightly by the two year old hand tracing her red lipsticked mouth.

“Can I have some?” she asks, big dark eyes wide.

“Uh, sure,” she says. Cool aunts never say no, she’s learned. At least to stuff that is allowed and not dangerous. “Angelica? Schuyler?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have chapstick? All I have is the real deal.”

“How many times have I told you that you need to hydrate your lips if you insist on wearing lipstick all the time?” Angelica grumbles from behind Philip-SC’s head. “John, can you grab my chapstick out of my purse?”

Angelica’s thousand year old, infant British nerd husband digs in Angelica’s enormous bag, grinning triumphantly when he finds it. “Regular or strawberry?”

“Strawberry, thanks JC. This is Nars, Gel, it doesn’t dry me out.” She reaches over Angelica to grab the little egg from John, kisses her on the cheek as she leans back. “Thanks.”

Little Angelica coos over the red little capsule, exactly like Peggy knew she would, because Aunt Peggy is the best.

“Go like this,” she says, puckering her lips dramatically. Angelica copies and Peggy gently traces her tiny toddler mouth. “There. Beautiful!”

Her niece grins for a second before losing interest. “Daddy?”

“Yes, Angel?” He looks up, immediately dropping whatever text he was composing.

“Can I have my book?”

“Of course,” Alex says, beaming proudly. He hasn’t shut up about how smart the kids are since the first day Philip held his head up for more than a second. “Philip, can you get your sister her book?” He points at the battered backpack Alex and Eliza lug everywhere to keep their kids entertained.

Philip puts down his own - his first chapter book, he, Alex, and Eliza told her earlier - and hands Angelica hers. He takes being a big brother and the oldest of the cousins very, very seriously. It reminds her of when six year old Angelica insisted on holding five year old Eliza and four year old Peggy’s hands while they crossed the street, like she too wasn’t a fetus at the time.

Angelica II pokes Philip III on the head until he agrees to let her “read” to him, which includes her describing the pictures while Angelica I actually reads the words.

Peggy twirls Little Angelica’s long dark braid around her fingers absentmindedly. The little Hamiltons have Alex’s last name, even though Eliza hyphenated. Something about carrying on the name because Alex doesn’t have anyone else to, or so he told her when he drank too much after the latest baptism. They’re really, truly fucking cute, and she isn’t just saying that because she’s their favorite aunt. They’ve got dark hair, Alex’s warm golden skin, Eliza’s dark, almond shaped eyes. Philip’s the only one with curls so far, the extra dose of adorable helping offset the fact that Peggy’s pretty sure he’ll have Alex’s nose. They make Peggy idly consider having kids of her own someday, even though she and Stevie are in one of their “off” stages and either way she’d have to find a sperm donor to do so.

Ugh. She really doesn’t want to pick a dude out of a catalog, but most of the ones she knows are total garbage.

Alex is decent, and has some friends that are less horrible than the average man. Some hot friends, she might think if she was interested in guys. She pictures herself asking Alex if she can ask his French aristocrat best friend or the guy he who works next door to knock her up and laughs out loud.

“Why are you laughing?” Philip asks.

“I just thought of something funny, Pip.”

“What?” he presses. Jesus, she thought they left the “but why?” stage behind last year.

“Yeah Peggy, what?” Alex gives her another glare, like he somehow knows what she was thinking about.

She rolls her eyes. “Nothing, Alexander. You don’t need to know everything.”

“I do,” Philip says, the vague pout on his face almost as adorable as his father’s is embarrassing.

She smiles and smoothes down his curls. “You will someday, little dude. Look, it’s starting,” she says, pointing to the stage where the band is preparing to start.

The crowd rises to their feet as the music starts. She and Alex each grab one of Philip’s hands and help him get up on his chair so he can see. Eliza skipped the psychology ceremony, which was packed and conflicted with Alex’s schedule, in favor of the fundraising one. This is better, honestly, it’s a much smaller class of only twenty people and only an hour long which is much more manageable for the kids, (and Peggy) who get antsy easily.

They all cheer when Eliza walks past, waving and blushing and grinning from ear to ear. Alex is smiling so hard Peggy worries he might break his face.

All four children behave like the angels they are certainly not during the speeches. Alex finally consents to giving John the video camera so he can focus on holding the baby and taking gross close up shots of Eliza with his phone.

“Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton, Masters in Fundraising Management and Psychology.”

They all clap politely, only because Eliza begged them not to be that family that yells and embarrass her after she found the airhorn in Angelica’s luggage.

Little Angelica does yell “that’s my mom!” but even the dean laughs at that.

Alex is a mess, straight up ugly sobbing and wiping his face on the baby’s bib. Peggy shifts Angelica to her other hip so she can take a few photos. Angelica the First leans in and shows her an impressive shot of him with a hand over his heart like a soap opera star.

“Nice,” Peggy whispers and fist bumps her before petting Alex’s arm in what she hopes is a soothing manner.

He looks over at her and smiles, his lower lip still trembling like the sap he is. “I’m just so fucking proud of her,” he says, sniffling. “She’s so great.”

“She is,” Peggy agrees, feeling a little choked up herself.

The ceremony wraps up and the graduates scatter to their families. The original Philip Schuyler takes Alex Junior from Alex Senior so he can go be the first to hug Eliza.

He practically lifts her off her feet, holding her for a long, long moment before pulling back and brushing his fingers along her cheek in what even from a distance is one of the most delicate, reverent things she’s ever seen. Eliza says something and nods before leaning in and kissing him. The two of them are wrapped up in their own little world, like the gross lovebirds they were when they met seven years ago, oblivious to Eliza’s tassel falling in their faces or people trying to move around them.

They finally break apart and come, hand in gross lovesick hand, back to the rest of the family.

“Mom, is that your prize?” Philip asks, excitedly pointing at her diploma. “Can I see it?”

“This is a pretend one for now,” she explains, handing it over and picking up Angelica seamlessly. “I’ll get the real one in a month or so.”

Peggy hugs her tightly. “Congrats, Bets, we’re so proud of you.”

Little Philip stands on his tiptoes, trying to see over his older cousin’s shoulder. “Let me see,” he whines and Peggy lets go of Eliza to mediate.

“Both Philips, behave,” Angelica says, muffled into Eliza’s shoulder. “Congrats, baby sis.”

“Look, Aunt ‘Gelica,” her namesake says. “I match Mommy.”

“You do, little me,” Angelica laughs, smoothing the strap of her indeed matching white sundress. “Someday you can get three degrees just like your mom too.”

Eliza kisses the top of her daughter’s head, eyes glowing. “Maybe she will.”

\---------

ASC: I read the latest Federalist, it’s genius

ASC: That one was you, right? I can always tell

AH: It was indeed

AH: Glad you thought so. I hope it works on stupid people too

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chants under his breath as he hurries down the steps to catch the train downtown. He started another installment of the Federalist last night, but then he overslept and is now running late for court. If Burr gets to do the closing argument after he’s been working on it for weeks, he’ll be furious.

ASC: Oh, you

ASC: How’s it looking for the vote next month?

AH: I really can’t tell yet

AH: I think it’s all going to depend on Virginia

ASC: Are you making another trip out there before the vote? I met this guy at a party last month that you should definitely talk to, he has a lot of pull with the more progressive rural types

ASC: I’ll have him call you

Alexander likes Angelica, always has, and likes talking to her even more. He had started bouncing ideas off of her while he was doing his law school coursework, trying to make sure that he wasn’t missing anything by not sitting in classrooms like she did. It was natural to continue with his maneuverings in Congress and the Federalist. She helps push him. It’s like having the voice driving him on inside his head become real. Sometimes it’s a lot, like being locked in an echo chamber of his own need and ambition, but she reminds him that it’s not him making it up. He really does need to work this hard. She makes it okay to stay up for days and type his fingers numb and push harder than he’s ever done before because she understands, she gets what he's trying to do. She’s smart as hell and intuitively understands the political games and alliances necessary to get anything done. Even all the way in England with Church running for Parliament, she has her finger on the pulse of everything going on in the States.

He often sends her drafts of what he’s working on, essays written late at night attached to emails with long, rambling notes. Thank god she's so... _Angelica_ , because he doesn't really have anyone else to turn to with this stuff. Madison’s too busy writing his own parts, Mulligan’s out of pocket on some secret trip, Jay is sick, Burr refused him, Lafayette too busy with his own French stuff. Besides, Angelica is a lot like him, gets his logic intuitively and is sharp enough to help him tighten it up where necessary.

Not that Eliza isn’t, but she doesn’t care about which congressman is sleeping with which intern and who everyone went to school with and has a back channel into getting a meeting with so and so. She has more important things to do, like raising the world’s fastest growing, most perfect children in the world (their numbers now up to four, the latest barely a few months old) and charming rich assholes out of their money to support her orphanage. She's like a saint, except better because she's _real_ and she's _his_.

He hates burdening her with the minutiae of the negotiations and backstabbing and dealing, the reminders that he's not sleeping and he's stressed and hasn't been to see her professor in months. Eliza takes these things almost as personally as he does and is furious every time she sees him slandered on the news. She worries about him, doesn’t like him staying up all night and eating like shit when he’s on the road.

He doesn’t like it either, he hates being away from her and Philip and Angelica and Alex and tiny, perfect little Jamie, that Eliza let him name after his father and brother even if she _hates_ James Hamilton, Sr., the way Alexander can’t seem to make himself for abandoning him all those years ago. In an ideal world, he’d have infinite time to spend with his family and make all his plans real, but it isn’t an ideal world. He’d like his kids to grow up in a better one, so he makes the time. A few hours sleep is nothing compared to building a world worthy of them.

AH: That’s perfect, thanks

AH: I’m finishing another installment on executive discretion tonight can I send you the draft?

ASC: Of course

AH: You're my favorite, Angelica

AH: What would I do without you

ASC: Let's hope we never find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is just Very Important to me that ham calls his daughter angel. i think i reference it in everything i've ever posted but it's my favorite detail.


	17. that attitude may be your doom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'the west wing' cannot canonically exist in this story, but i'm making my dumb jokes anyway. also just to be pedantic, dr. garza = eliza's professor.
> 
> there's a string of nicknames in the middle, all of which are taken from here and ruin me on a daily basis: http://angelica-hamilton.tumblr.com/post/129371789308/some-of-the-many-things-alexander-called-betsey
> 
> this is the last chapter before the fucking brutal next one, which is the reason i wrote this story in the first place. :)

ESH: Where are you?

ESH: You were supposed to meet me at the restaurant an hour ago I swear to God if you flew to Virginia without telling me again I will actually murder you this time

ESH: ?????

AH: Soon

AH: Don’t forget

ESH: What?

AH: Moving there

AH: Za

ESH: Is everything okay?

ESH: Alexander???????

\---------

Someone is pounding on his door.

Aaron groans and goes to answer it. It's nine, not oppressively late, but there's only one other person he knows that works this late. If it’s fucking Hamilton again, begging him to write an essay for the Federalist again, he’ll punch him.

It’s a Hamilton, but not the one he was expecting.

“Eliza?” he blurts in confusion.

"Do you have a key to Alexander's office?"

"No, why?"

“Then you need to call the super,” she says urgently, shoving past him into his office. “I don’t have the number and I don’t have a key either.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have a key, I don’t know why! I’m not the one who spends three nights a week here!”

“Eliza, what’s wrong?” he asks. She looks nothing like the picture perfect Eliza like she does at dinner parties or when meeting Hamilton after work. Her cheeks are flushed and her dark eyes are wild, and she keeps twisting her hands together uncannily like her husband does when he’s stressed.

“He was acting weird, he wasn’t making sense, and he skipped out on our dinner plans,” she says, voice rising hysterically. “His phone says he’s here but now he isn’t picking up.”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” he says slowly, hoping to calm her down. “He’s probably just caught up in something or asleep at his desk. The walls are thin, I hear him ignoring phone calls all the time.”

“Not mine.” She shakes her head. “Not ever. Please, Aaron, just call the super and get him to unlock the door.”

“Okay,” he surrenders. If Hamilton’s in there watching The West Wing with headphones on Aaron really might punch him this time.

The super answers immediately, thank god, and says he’ll be up in 5 minutes. He relays that to Eliza, who’s begun pacing and talking to herself. It’s honestly fucking scary. She and Hamilton are similar heights, with similar dark ponytails, and she paces and freaks herself out in the exact same way he does. That house must be a nightmare, with four kids, Eliza working towards her PhD (Hamilton brags incessantly about his hot, brilliant, perfect wife, like Theodosia doesn’t make more money than all of them combined), and Hamilton being... himself. He wonders if they ever sleep, or if they’re just constantly working and churning out more kids.

“I told him not to take this case on top of everything else,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “First it was the convention, and obviously he was sick the entire time and still gave that ridiculous six hour speech and came home without a voice and got Phillip fucking sick too. Writing the charter for the new bank in a night and a half. And then not even a week later he starts with the Federalist, writing until two in the morning every night and flying back and forth between home and Virginia giving speeches and on the phone at all hours with James Madison. Fighting with the Governor and going to meetings and interviewing trying to find someone to run against him.”

Her tone shifts from angry to something heartbroken. “It was John’s birthday last week, which he refuses to deal with and only freaks him out more.”

John can only be John Laurens. Aaron remembers talking to him at the wedding - he was drunk and trying to pick a fight, not that that distinguishes it from most of the other nights he spent with Hamilton and his friends. He remembers Laurens staring moonily and moodily at Hamilton, saying that Hamilton “finally had everything.” And then he died, not even a year later, after the war was over. What a fucking waste. It was worth it, Aaron knows it was, has to believe it was, but he’ll never stop hating the way it just took all those lives and dreams and possibilities.

“Then he won’t even consider a plea deal for this case, spends days preparing for trial barely taking the time to eat,” Eliza rants, the vulnerability gone as she works herself back into irritation. “So stupidly competitive that he writes an entire closing statement he can’t use anyway for the sole purpose of fighting with you over it.”

Aaron winces, remembering the extended battle over the opening arguments. He had agreed to let Hamilton take the opening and he would do the closing, but he had outdone himself. He talked for twenty straight minutes and showed no signs of stopping.

“Our client is innocent, call your first witness,” Burr had interjected testily once they hit minute twenty five and yanked Hamilton back down into his chair. “That’s all you had to say,” he hissed.

“Okay, Burr, relax.” He rolled his eyes and dove back into his notes, writing in the margins and on a napkin and in between lines like there wasn’t enough space in the universe to contain his mind, not enough time in the world to get it all down.

The prosecution took the entire morning to question the lead detective and bored everyone half to death. Hamilton was fidgeting next to him like some sugar high two year old, leaping at the chance - literally, jumping out of his chair - to enter objections. The judge looked like she wanted to overrule him just for his sheer joy, but because Hamilton was Hamilton, every objection was legitimate.

Hamilton’s nervous, manic energy that morning suddenly takes a new, darker spin.

“I didn’t know,” Aaron says defensively. “We were working on the case together, and I knew about the Federalist, obviously, but I had no idea about the rest of it.”

“No one has any idea how hard he’s working. How far he’s pushing himself. He hasn’t seen Dr. Garza in months, even if he does have his med-” she cuts herself off mid intriguing sentence, the ending of which Aaron forces himself to remember is none of his business. “They all need him so much they’re blind to everything else. Who else has studied enough fiscal policy to build a bank from nothing? Who else could defend the first accused murderer in United States history? Who else wants this, needs it badly enough to work this hard for it? They pull him in so many different directions at once, and how can he say no? It’s all he’s ever wanted, to be recognized and valued and known on the strength of his talent. They don’t understand that if they keep demanding things from him like this they’re going to kill him.”

“I didn’t know,” he repeats. He doesn’t know what else to say, but Eliza has a fragile, doll-like quality (not that she seems very delicate right now) that makes him feel horrible for whatever part he had in upsetting her. “He makes it look so easy.”

“Well, it’s not,” she says venomously. “You should know better. You’ve known him longer than I have, you know what he’s like.”

Aaron looks down at his feet. “Maybe I should have known,” he admits. “But you know he wouldn’t take any kind of advice from me. Does he even listen to you?”

“Sometimes. Not enough,” she says bitterly. “What can I do? He’s smarter than me, he’s literally famous for being persuasive. There’s nothing I can do to match that.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Sometimes I wish he was less gifted,” she says softly. “Then maybe they would need him less and let him have some peace for once. Everyone else gets to go away for the summer, take a break from public life, but not him. He’s holding this country up all on his own and no one realizes. They take him for granted.”

Aaron wants to say something: that Eliza’s idealizing Hamilton for love of him; or that he personally doesn’t take him for granted, but he knows she’s absolutely right. He suddenly feels incredibly guilty for turning down the invitation to help write the Federalist. For taunting Hamilton about the closing argument.

“I’m sorry,” he says. For what exactly, he doesn’t know, but he knows he means it.

She sighs heavily. “Me too.”

The super appears in the doorway. “Mr. Burr. What exactly can I do for you?”

“Hi. We need to open Mr. Hamilton’s door. It’s locked and his wife here needs to make sure that he’s alright.”

“Okay,” he says skeptically but starts sorting through his keys. “Ma’am, you know Mr. Hamilton is often here very late at night. I’m sure he just fell asleep.”

“We’ll see,” Eliza says in a sugary sweet tone laced with the clear threat of bodily harm.

The door opens, finally, and Eliza is off like a shot, rushing into the room where all the lights are still blazing. Aaron follows without thinking.

Hamilton is slumped over his desk, passed out but looking normal enough. He looks like shit, but he always does.

Eliza immediately falls to her knees by his side and tries to shake him awake. He’s unresponsive. She lays a hand across his forehead and jerks it back with a soft cry. “Fever. Goddammit. Alexander, wake up,” she urges again, voice panicky.

Hamilton stirs, and Eliza’s shoulders collapse with relief. “Eliza?” he says groggily.

“Yes!” she says, nodding frantically. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

“Eliza, my charmer,” he slurs drowsily. “My little nut brown maid.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” she says, disbelieving. “He’s delirious.”

“My pretty damsel.”

Aaron is mortified.

“Alexander,” she repeats firmly, trying to get him to meet her eyes. “How long has it been since you slept?”

“How long could it have been?” Aaron asks incredulously.

“I don’t know, he hasn’t been home for more than dinner with the kids in days,” Eliza snaps. “Do something useful instead of asking nosy questions.”

This is far more than Aaron ever wanted to know about Hamilton’s marriage, but he obeys anyway and steps close enough to find Hamilton’s pulse. Eliza was right, his skin is incredibly hot. It only takes a few seconds for him to determine that his heart rate is far too high.

“Eliza, he needs to go to the hospital. He’s probably dehydrated.”

“He doesn’t like hospitals,” she says, weirdly detached, almost to herself. “Emergency rooms are dangerous. Disease. Sleep deprived doctors. People going through withdrawal and stuff.”

“He needs to go,” Aaron repeats. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him but this isn’t normal. And you said it’s been like this for a while and I don’t know what else is going on…” he tries to say meaningfully, alluding to whatever had her so worried earlier without speculating or prying.

“You’re right,” she says, shaking off whatever fog she was in. “Can you call an ambulance?”

Aaron pauses. “You should take him yourself.”

“I can’t drive like this. With him like this,” she says testily. “And he’s too heavy for me to drag in there myself. Call. An. Ambulance.”

“Imagine if someone sees an ambulance here, or hears that he’s been hospitalized.”

“What am I supposed to do, just take him home and hope that he doesn’t fucking die?” Eliza demands.

“You said it yourself, he’s the one keeping all of this together until the new government takes effect,” Aaron says, surprised by how sincerely he believes it. “Any sign that he’s in less than perfect form could cause panic in the markets. It'll distract the jury and throw our case. It would distract people from what he’s actually saying in the Federalist.”

She turns away from him, resting her forehead on Hamilton’s knee.

“You know I’m right,” he insists. “He would be beside himself if everything he’s worked for got derailed.”

“I can’t believe this,” she moans.

“I’ll help you take him,” he hears himself say. “It’ll be fine.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “God, who did I marry?” she says so quietly he almost doubts he hears it.

Aaron wonders if she knows, if she ever knew. If sweet, naive Eliza Schuyler knew what she was getting into the day that Hamilton set his sights on her. Hamilton loves her, of course, Aaron would be absolutely stupid to say or believe otherwise. But Hamilton loves everybody, and Aaron wonders if she _knows_ , if she knows about Laurens and her sister and the time he tried to kiss Aaron and whatever the fuck went on with Mulligan, or that girl Kitty, or if all the puppy eyes he made at Lafayette ever became something real. If she knows how fucked up he is, how he got here and ran straight into Aaron and attached himself like he’d never had a friend before. Eliza probably thought that his natural intensity meant more than it did, meant that she was the only one he ever turned those eyes on. Aaron feels bad, almost angry at Alexander for dragging this girl into his hurricane without any idea what she was getting into.

But she’s here now, and she’s trying harder than Aaron thought possible, and it makes him dizzy with awe.

She stands up, cool and collected again. “Let’s go. Go get your car, and I’ll wheel him downstairs.”

“Theo has the bigger car. Mine only seats two.”

She sighs exasperatedly. “Fine. I’ll go get my car, and you meet me downstairs.”

She’s gone before Aaron can protest.

He turns back to Hamilton, who is still passed out over his desk. He looks smaller than he usually does, and Aaron feels a strange pang of pity. He grips Hamilton by his collar and pulls him up until he’s leaning against the back of his chair, which Aaron grabs and steers towards the hallway. They’re almost out when Hamilton’s foot falls off the footrest and his scuffed shoe gets caught on the doorframe.

Aaron swears loudly, frustrated, which makes Hamilton stir.

 _“Où est le médecin?”_ he mumbles. "Where are the doctors? Where are you taking her? Where is she?"

“So you do Rosetta Stone in your spare time, too?” Aaron complains. “No wonder I have to literally drag your ass out of here. If you could just sleep like a normal person I could be home with my own wife and daughter right now.”

He pulls Hamilton down the hall and into the elevator, where he spends an uncomfortable seven floor trip down trapped in a box with Hamilton while he keeps babbling in French.

Eliza is waiting by the curb, doors thrown open and the back seat clearly quickly emptied. He can see a car seat thrown unceremoniously on the floor.

“Help me get him in the back,” she orders briskly.

Aaron wheels him up to the door and they start to drag him into the car, which startles Hamilton awake again. “Where are you taking her? Ma? Where are the doctors?" he slurs.

He staggers under Hamilton’s weight when Eliza abruptly drops him and steps away, hands rising to cover her mouth.

“What is he saying?” she asks wildly. “Am I hearing him right?”

“Something about a doctor,” he grunts, hefting Hamilton the rest of the way into the car. “He keeps asking where he’s going. He can’t be that bad off if he heard us talking about the hospital.”

He closes the door and turns. Eliza is still paralyzed, eyes wide with horror.

“What?” Aaron sighs, confused.

“No,” Eliza chokes, “he definitely said something about his mother. Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.”

Jesus, the orphan club thing. It was one of the first things Hamilton told Aaron, literally within the first five minutes of meeting, but Aaron still doesn't actually know what happened. It was Aaron's own reluctance kept them from swapping dead parent stories, and looking at Eliza's face he's glad they didn't. He doesn't need any more childhood trauma to add to his own.

He shakes himself out of... whatever he's feeling and turns back to Eliza, who is frozen in place, face pale and hands shaking. “We need to get him to the hospital,” he says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Give me your keys.” She nods rapidly, blinking back the tears that had welled up in her dark eyes and hands them over.

Aaron drives as quickly as he dares to the nearest hospital, Eliza silent in the passenger seat, looking over her shoulder to where Hamilton lies in the back.

He helps her drag him into a wheelchair, parks her car and brings the keys back in. Hamilton’s been moved to a cot and is lying with an IV in his arm while she fills out paperwork and glances at him every three seconds.

He wonders how much Eliza will tell him about tonight, because Aaron sure as fuck won't. He wishes he were brave enough to tell Hamilton what exactly he did to his poor wife, how scared she was, how desperate to do anything to help him. Hamilton's always dropping threads of conversations to talk about her, worry about her and the kids. He calls her whenever he's at the office late, doesn't bother to excuse himself to talk to his wife in private like a normal person with boundaries, and Aaron can't help but overhear him asking how she is, how the kids are, making her swear that she's alright and lying to her about how shitty his day was before hanging up with a promise to be home soon that he nearly always breaks. It's odd, the way he's so insistent that nothing upset her when he hurts her so casually and constantly.

The country may be resting on Hamilton’s shoulders, but they’re not Alexander’s. It’s a shame the world will never know how hard Eliza works to keep it all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burr's voice is SO FUN to write in.
> 
> thank you for reading! i'm working on wrapping up the final chapters, so if you have feedback now is the time! also, i love you.
> 
> btw, have you guys listened to natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 yet? it's AMAZING. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7g8et_bW30


	18. what we know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you going to say?”
> 
> “Oh, I’m accepting. I already told him. Why wouldn’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Point Of It All (this fic)

Alexander comes home late, as usual, to find Eliza in the last moments of putting away dinner, as usual. Ten years, four kids, two smart people: they’ve gotten their routine down to a science. Her more regular hours better suited to cooking and after school chaos; he gets the kids ready every morning, does laundry and cleans whenever he gets home. He grabs the plate she left in the fridge for him, as she always does when he can’t make it home for dinner, and settles on a stool to eat and talk to/stare at his wife.

“The President offered me Treasury Secretary today,” he says casually. He tries to focus on his food but he looks over at her to see her reaction. He can feel that buzzing he gets under his skin, and even in Eliza’s calming presence he still feels jittery.

She nods, carefully sealing the lid on a tupperware. “I know. Are you considering it?”

He raises an eyebrow. He certainly expected more smiling and maybe some kissing. At least a little surprise.

“How do-”

“It’s all over the news,” she cuts him off. “So?”

“Already?” He drops his fork and picks up his phone. There it is in Twitter moments: “President-Elect Washington to nominate Col. Alexander Hamilton for treasury secretary.” Further down, he sees “Hamilton is expected to accept,” and “Father of four,” which makes him smile. “That was quick,” he comments. “I didn’t even release a statement yet.”

“Alexander.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says absently, still scrolling through his feed. “I’ll do it tomorrow. Extend the news cycle.” A few nice congratulatory messages. He checks King George’s “anonymous” troll accounts and is disappointed when there’s no salty tweets yet.

“Alex _ander_.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly. Eliza hates when he uses his phone while talking to her. So does everyone, really, but as with most other things, he really only cares what she thinks. He puts it down and looks back up at her. She has an odd, detached look on her face.

“What?” he asks.

She sighs impatiently. "What are you going to say?”

“Oh, I’m accepting. I already told him. Why wouldn’t I?”

Her face falls.

“What the fuck, Eliza?” he half laughs, incredulous.

“I just want you to know...” she trails off. Her hands flutter nervously on the counter. He reflexively covers them with one of his and squeezes gently. She inhales deeply and starts again. “I want you to know you don’t have to do this. You can say no.”

He recoils slightly, hand jerking back to his side. “Why would I say no? This is everything I’ve worked for, I’d be stupid not to take it.”

“It’s a great opportunity, I know, and I’m incredibly proud of you. But I wish you had talked to me about it before deciding.”

“What’s there to talk about? How could you think I’d turn it down? Do you not know me well enough to know that this job is all I’ve ever wanted?”

She sidesteps his dramatics with practiced ease. “You didn’t even tell me before you accepted it.”

“Because of course I’m going to!”

“We’re going to have to move-”

“We need a bigger place anyway!”

“- and find the kids new schools -”

“They’re smart, they’ll be fine anywhere,” he says dismissively.

“- and this is going to be a lot for you, and I want you to be sure that you want to do this, and you don’t just do it because you feel like you have to.”

“Of course I want to!”

“Would you stop interrupting me and just let me talk?”

“Fine. Talk,” he says challengingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

She looks like she wants to yell at him, but she takes a deep breath before talking again. “I am just trying to say that this is a lot. I’m happy to move, to find a new job, to put the kids in new schools. I love you, Alexander, and that means that I’ll do hard things for you. But you have to talk to me about it, you can’t make decisions unilaterally. It’s not just your life.”

“I know that,” he says. “I do. But this is it. It’s Treasury Secretary. Washington asked me to do it, he’s asking me to lead. I’m just supposed to say no and go back to before?”

“‘ _Go back to?_ ’” she hisses, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t realize our lives were so terrible.”

“You know what I meant,” he says tersely. “This is the biggest chance I’ll ever get to prove that I can be someone important. That I deserve to be here.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she pleads. “You’re already someone, you don’t need to prove it.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not! And what does it matter, anyway?”

He throws up his arms, frustrated. “This is what I’ve dedicated my life to, you think it doesn’t matter?”

“You’re a war hero, the nation’s undeniably most famous, probably best lawyer, you signed the Constitution that you almost single handedly got ratified,” she lists, voice rising. “Are those things not good enough for you? What could you possibly have left to prove? Damnit, Alexander, when will it be enough?”

“I have to prove everything!” he explodes. She doesn’t flinch. “I have to fight every single day to protect every inch I’ve earned. You know what they say behind my back. They never miss a chance to remind everyone that I came from nothing and that tomorrow I could be back there. Like somehow that makes all the years I’ve spent fighting for this country irrelevant. I would have died to free us from Britain, I almost did. And still, every time I do anything, they’ll bring up my shitty background. When I was at the Convention they tried to dismiss everything I said because I wasn’t born here and how could I _possibly_ know what America is all about? I’m trying to build something here, not only for myself but for this country and our children, who you seem to think I’ve forgotten all about. I’m not throwing away my shot.”

“This is why this job scares me,” she says, shaking her head. “Because you’ll take it, and you’ll do an amazing job, and you’ll continue to literally change the world, but the way you talk now I know it won’t be enough for you. You’ve practically killed yourself getting this far and you say that this is it, that this is what it was all for, but it’s not and you know it. You keep moving the goalposts on yourself. It’ll never be enough, no matter how hard you work, and you’re going to kill yourself if you keep going at this pace.”

Alex sits up straighter. How did he not see what this was about sooner? “Eliza,” he says softly, reaching a hand back out to her. “You don’t need to worry about that. I told you, that was a one time thing.”

“Which ‘one time?’” she says acidly. “A few months ago when I had to take you to a hospital under a fake name because you hadn’t slept in four days? The time when you were finishing your law degree and couldn’t move your hands because you had been typing for so long? Or the time that I had to drag you into therapy after Washington sent you home?”

“Three times in ten years! That’s not exactly a recurring problem! As for the other thing, I’m on a perfectly well balanced medicine regimen that keeps that under control. So really only two times.”

She makes an indignant noise that could be a laugh or a cry. “You know that’s not how that works. You haven’t been to see the therapist in months. You can’t treat bipolar with medication alone, and you shouldn’t be working yourself into exhaustion ever! I don’t care how ‘few’ times!”

“Eliza, it’s okay, I’m okay, you don’t have to worry, I promise,” he says, reaching for her hand again. “I’m as healthy as I’ll ever be and if working hard was going to kill me it would have already. Honestly, a cabinet position is the best thing for me! It gives me a clear role to function and effect change within the government, a real role with clear cut responsibilities and I’ll have a staff to delegate to, it’ll be way better than being on the outside where I have to fight and write fifty one essays to be heard. Furthermore -”

“God, shut up,” she snaps, yanking her hand away. She’s still the only person who can render him speechless. “I hate when you do this. I’m your wife, you don’t need to beat me and everything I say into the ground like some idiot on Twitter. I already know you’re smarter than me. You don’t need to make me feel stupid.”

Surprised and confused by her reaction, he can feel himself getting just as apparently pissed in response. “You’re right, you are my wife, and I don’t usually need to explain these things to you because you’re supposed to be the one person who gets it. How can you suddenly think that I would say no? What do you want me to do? Say, ‘you know what, Eliza, you’re right. Because of one thing that happened one time in some very unusual circumstances, I better turn down the best opportunity I’ve ever gotten, the only chance I’ll ever get to make something of myself.’”

“This isn’t about one time! It’s about your attitude. I’m scared you’ll throw everything else away. Your children need you, now more than ever, and -”

“That’s not fair,” he says angrily. “I’m busy, but don’t make me out to be an absent father. Do not. You can’t just make things up when you’re mad at me.”

“I didn’t say you were, I am TRYING to say that I’m worried that you won’t be able to be around as much with the new job and I don’t want that for you. I know how important actually raising your children is to you, and I don’t want you to do something that compromises that when you do. Not. Have. To.”

“Because I’m magically going to become a new person the day after the inauguration? Everything that I care about goes out the window once I get back on the government payroll?”

“Stop being deliberately obtuse, you’re better than that.” Her hands are balled into fists on the countertop, knuckles shining white.

“I’m not, I’m just some insecure, orphaned, fucking immigrant without a real education that doesn’t know any better. That latched onto George Washington years ago and thinks he can only be successful hanging onto his coattails. That’s what you think, right?” Her lack of reaction infuriates him even more. “You really think I’m that pathetic?”

“Of course I don’t, but it’s very telling that you seem to think so,” she says in that psych major voice he hates so much.

“I’m only repeating what everyone else says.”

“They bring up those things because that’s all they have. They can’t take away anything you’ve accomplished.”

He slams his hand into the counter in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Eliza, you are so _fucking naive_ if you don’t think-”

“Do NOT talk to me like that,” she says hotly.

“- they can. Of course they can take everything away,” he rants. “They can make it all not matter. They can make me irrelevant. They already have the material, they’re just waiting for the chance.”

“Listen to yourself. You’re your own worst enemy, you know that? The majority of the country has no idea where you were born! They don’t care where you went to school and they certainly don’t care that your father wasn’t around. The only person that cares is you. What does it matter what a few people that don’t like you have to say? Stop being so paranoid and insecure.”

“Wow, I didn’t know it was that easy!” he says snidely. “Boom, no more insecurity. No more paranoia. What’ll you cure me of next?”

“I hate watching you do this to yourself.”

“You don’t have to,” he yells, the words bursting out of him before he can help it.

She stares at him, aghast. “What?”

“You don’t have to watch,” he repeats stubbornly.

"Are you fucking serious?"

He shrugs theatrically, gives her a parody of a smile. "Why don't we find out?"

“Why are you daring me to leave you?”

“I’m not, Eliza, but you sure seem ready to.”

“God, what is wrong with you?” she whispers. “Why can’t this be enough for you? Why can’t a good job and a family and a national platform on top of all of that be enough? We don’t need a legacy. We don’t need fame or money or -”

“You’re right. _We_  don’t need any of those things because _you_  already have them.”

“Excuse me?”

“You get the luxury of not caring about money or your reputation because you were born rich and pretty in a good family.”

“Oh, fuck you. Do not reduce me to that after everything.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to have to fight for even the chance to prove yourself. Luckily you didn’t have to lose anything by marrying a nobody. Although,” he says bitterly, “as if rich daddy’s girl Elizabeth Schuyler would have married some broke island brat if I wasn’t Washington’s favorite.”

“As if you would have stopped fucking anyone who would have you if my ‘daddy’ wasn’t rich and connected,” she spits back, face flushed red with anger.

“I knew it!” he yells in a hollow triumph. “You’ve always thought I married you for your money.”

“No, I’ve always thought you married me because Angelica was already taken.”

It takes a moment for the full impact of her words to hit him, whatever he was about to scream back at her stuttering on his tongue and choking him. When it does, he feels a wave of guilt and nausea pass over him so strong he has to lay his head in his hands.

“Don’t tell me you really thought I didn’t know,” she says flatly. “She’s my sister. You and I have been married for almost ten years. Of course I knew.”

“Eliza, stop, just please, stop, stop talking,” he grits out, fisting his hands in his hair and doing his best to just breathe, just fucking breathe, one two three four five, god he’s going to fucking throw up.

“Oh my god,” she says, disbelieving. “You did? Really? Jesus, and they call me naive.”

“Stop,” he moans. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I just said that I know, and that I have known, and I thought you did, too. You think I care that you slept with her a decade ago? Of course you’re in love with her, everyone’s in love with her,” she says, voice breaking. “It was enough for me that you chose me. It had to be, because I had no choice in the matter. You were it for me from the moment we met. I don’t give a shit about the thing with my sister, and John Laurens, and all the others because you promised me I’d never have to feel helpless like this ever again.”

He looks up and she’s crying now, really crying, and the guilt pierces him like a stab in the heart.

“Eliza, I’m-”

“No,” she cuts him off as firmly as she can. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I want to go check on our son, who isn’t sleeping well because he has a cold. I want you to take the stupid job. I want you to pursue your dreams. I don’t want to watch you chase after satisfaction you’ll never find.”

She wipes her eyes and hurries out of the kitchen, deliberately taking a route well out of his arms’ reach.

He goes upstairs after her, and finds her sitting on the bench in front of their bed, arms wrapped around her knees.

“Why?” he whispers. “Why would you do it? If you knew? About me and Angelica?”

At the sound of her sister’s name she bursts into heaving tears. “Please don’t tell her I knew,” she sobs. He can’t help it, he knows she’s furious with him and he’s still mad at her, but he can’t see her like this and not hold her. He wraps both arms around her and pulls her close. She grips his arm tightly even as she shakes harder. “She can’t know I did it on purpose, I can’t face her ever again if she knows.”

She cries inconsolably for the next few minutes, despite Alex’s best efforts to soothe her. He can feel his own tears fall silently, brought on by guilt and frustration and emotional exhaustion.

Eliza finally manages to catch her breath and pulls away from him slightly. “Making her introduce me to you was the meanest, most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she says, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I knew about your history, and I knew she still had feelings for you, but she was married and I knew she couldn’t act on them anyway. I pretended like I didn’t know, like I couldn’t see how you looked at each other. She was drunk that night and tried to confess but I put her to bed before she could, and I think she forgot about it in the morning. I never brought it up again. I don’t know how she fell for it, but she did. And she loves me enough to put my happiness above hers like I couldn’t do for her. She’s so important to me and I’ve been crueler to her than I thought was humanly possible.”

“And you,” she says hoarsely, “you were all I wanted from that moment on. Sometimes I think hurting her was worth it if it made all of this possible. I loved you the second I saw you, but I could have lived without you. I did this on purpose, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Eliza, you are not the bad guy, okay?” She shakes her head vigorously. “Stop it, you’re not,” he insists, grabbing her chin gently and stilling her. “You’re a good person. It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t say that,” she says, panicked. “Do you know how many times I almost brought it up? It kills me, to see you look at me like I didn’t do this. But I was so scared to bring it up because I was scared you would leave and I would have ruined everything from the start.” She sits up, eyes wild. “Maybe everyone would be better off if it was Angelica and not me. She gets you in a way I don’t. She wouldn’t be upset about the job, she would want you to take it.”

“Stop,” he says, more harshly than he intended. “Don’t. You’re not a consolation prize, Eliza. I didn’t marry you because I thought you were second best to your sister or anyone else.”

“Then why did you?” she demands. “Why did you even talk to me after you had been with her? I don’t understand.”

He looks down at his hands, at the ring she put there around his finger. “I don’t know,” he says. “I wanted to. I just wanted to really badly and I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more.”

“And that was enough?”

“Yeah,” he exhales, lays heavily back and stares at the ceiling. “It was. You made me feel like a real person. Like I was someone who mattered, like I could be all the things I was trying so desperately to be.”

“Do you think differently of me now? That you know?” she asks. "Don't lie. I want to know."

He’s silent for a moment, considering. “No. Not really.”

“How? I just told you I did this terrible thing.”

“You did something selfish. So did I. So does everyone. That doesn’t make you a bad person. I know that…” he pauses, struggles, for a rare moment, to find the right words. “I know that you think that I idealize you, or don’t see all of you. But I do. I swear to you I do. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I didn’t.”

“I know,” she says, lying down next to him, nestling into his side tentatively. He pulls her fully on top of him, her head resting just under his, hearts beating against each other. “I see you, too. And sometimes it's easier for us to pretend like we only see the best in each other, but that doesn't mean we don't know."

He drums his fingers along her spine. "Seriously. This would be too hard if we had to constantly fight about underlying causes rather than whatever one of us did."

"A fucking men," she says into his sternum. "We're efficient. Streamlined. Like don't worry, tabloids and family, I know exactly what my husband is up to."

"I never really got what you were saying before," he says, thinking hard. "About people selectively seeing you. I don't really get it professionally, there's a certain amount of objectivity and meritocracy there, but in life and relationship stuff I totally do."

"They think we’re both two idiots in love.”

“Aren’t we?” he says, and she giggles a little. “Burr yelled at me the other night."

“No way. He expressed human emotion?”

“I’m serious! It was after you and I got off the phone. He said that I should tell you about the things that upset me during the day. Like you care that the opposing counsel called our witness a liar.”

“I don’t care,” she says bluntly and they both laugh. “I know what you mean, though. Peggy got mad at me because I didn’t get mad when you spent our anniversary in Virginia.”

“Have we ever celebrated an anniversary?”

“Not even once.”

“And you were mad that I was in Virginia.”

“Because you went without telling me and you know how I hate those assholes down there. They’re rude to you.”

“I know. I hate them, too.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “You promise you’re not mad? That I knew and didn’t say anything?”

“Absolutely not. Do you promise you’re not mad? About… everything?”

“No,” she says simply. “I love Angelica, too. And it’s not like I ever asked, so you didn’t lie. God knows I’ve hurt her more than you ever did.”

“You know this is kind of weird. Your professor would say that we should be mad at each other. That this is weird.”

She shrugs. “I don’t really care what we should do. I’ve always known this about you and it hasn’t made me love you any less. Why should that start now?”

"Let it never start," he says, and kisses her on the temple. "Best of wives."

"I know," she says, and he can feel her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> i have a lot of feelings. come to the comments and yell with me about them.


	19. all this way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica was reminded that while she could still fight these little battles, she had lost the war a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> interlude! before the final arc. i think we all know what that is. :(
> 
> thank you all for your kind words about the last chapter! i didn't want to put a long authors note on that one because i wanted it to stand alone without my commentary (which i realize is dramatic), but it really is the reason i wrote this. i just think there's no way that eliza wouldn't have known about historical ham/angelica's crushes, or my ham/angelica's fling. they're the two most important people in her life and she's smarter than people give her credit for. eliza knows exactly who she married, and ham always has, deep down. 
> 
> i tried to write this whole thing with that knowledge in mind, trying to figure out how that colored eliza's perspective even if we don't see it. i also wanted her to be legitimately upset about the whole treasury secretary thing without making her a nagging wife cliche or whatever. basically the point of everything is Don't Underestimate Eliza Schuyler-Hamilton.
> 
> also, have you guys seen this? https://twitter.com/Lin_Manuel/status/693837663019888640 ! IT WRITES ITSELF.

TJ: Come over

ASC: A. it's 2 in the afternoon

ASC: B. no

TJ: :(((((((

ASC: i'm here visiting my sister idiot this isn't a transatlantic booty call

TJ: :(((((((((((((((((((((((

TJ: So you like Hamilton more than me now?

ASC: maybe

ASC: show me how wrong i am tomorrow night

TJ: :)))))))

It’s almost funny to her, watching Alex and Thomas fight each other at every turn when they have so much more in common than they’d ever admit. Angelica’s always had a type. Cocky, passionate, smart and fully aware of just how so. Complete political opposites, obviously - she may think Thomas is brilliant, but that doesn’t mean she’ll ever agree with him. She’s always been baffled by how they read the same philosophy, agree on the larger points, and then disagree completely on how it translates into policy.

Angelica had hoped that they would be able to put aside their differences and work together (and at least not make things awkward for her when she came to visit) but they hate each other instantly. It goes beyond political differences and becomes deeply, nastily personal.

There’s the obvious: Thomas is old money, born to privilege, and carries himself with a kind of natural self-assurance and entitlement that poor, immigrant, orphaned Alex can never achieve. Beyond that, Alex resents Thomas for not fighting in the war. Part of that is also leftover anger for the way that Congress and all the state governments ignored all the pleas he wrote in Washington’s name for more men and supplies. Thomas got to hide from most of the fighting, already established as the governor of Virginia and a bonafide intellectual leader after the publication of the Declaration- he didn’t need to prove himself on the battlefield the way Alex did. She remembers Alex as she knew him during the war: sharp and pushy and desperate for martyrdom. He can’t help it, she knows, but he spent so long believing that dying for the revolution was the pinnacle of honor that he can’t understand that there are other, less literal ways to fight. Even now, he throws himself on the front line of every issue and fights for his ideas like his life depends on it. He would never admit it, but he’s desperately jealous of the way Thomas got to skip the compromise and practicality of the Constitutional Convention. He got to stay in France, writing lofty declarations of freedom and exploring the nuances of political theory. Alex only got to do that in his own mind, his carefully thought out design for government was immediately laughed out of the room and he was forced to settle for bits and pieces of his dream.

She loves Alex, and is sympathetic to his faults, but it’s not hard to see why he instantly rubs Thomas the wrong way. He understands people on an abstract, logical level, but he truly doesn’t understand the mindset of the average voter. The fact that they’re simply wrong on a number of issues is enough for him to disregard their opinions entirely. He’s an unadulterated snob. Not that Thomas isn’t, of course, but he at least understands the passions of his rural constituents. He takes his responsibility as their representative just as seriously as Alex does, but understands it in an entirely different way. He watches Alex push unpopular plans over his people’s express wishes, and it’s obvious to him that Alex is only out for his own personal gain. He sees him sit next to Washington, inserting himself into matters over which he has no jurisdiction, and judges him to be overly ambitious and willing to use his association with the President to advance his own reputation.

She never says anything explicitly to either of them, but she only fucks geniuses, and they can put two and two together. They’re both furious when they find out about the other. Alex sputters and twitches and accuses her of fraternizing with his political enemy. He demands that she show a little _sisterly_ loyalty (and doesn’t that just twist the knife even deeper?). She knows he’s jealous but he refuses to admit it. For a week, he passive aggressively refers to Eliza only as “my wife” when talking to her.

Thomas pretends he’s above it all, as is his custom, but the bite mark he leaves on her neck after he overhears her on the phone with Alex says otherwise. He never actually asks her flat out what goes on between them, but he’s too smart and knows too many of the same people to be completely ignorant. When they both flew in - separately, even if John had to stay in London - for the inauguration last year, Thomas made an obnoxious show of flirting with her. Handsy, whispering in her ear, calling her “Ang” in front of Alex - petty, childish behavior she couldn’t make herself disallow. It was worth it for a few minutes while Alex sniped at Thomas and competed for her attention, but he clearly forgot all about it when Eliza came back from her conversation with the new First Lady. She was beautiful, two months pregnant in a deep blue dress, barely showing but glowing. He spent the rest of the night mooney eyed, dragging her around to meet everyone and showing off pictures of their kids. Angelica was reminded that while she could still fight these little battles, she had lost the war a long time ago.

Eliza is still the most important thing to her, as always, and no matter how painful seeing Alex play happy family with someone else is, it’s nothing compared to how much she loves visiting her sister and watching her nieces and nephews grow up.

Things with John have been… not ideal lately. Angelica’s bored of London, hates being around people who still refer to America condescendingly as “the colonies” when she’s still riding high on revolution, missing all the continued excitement at home. He’s busy with his Parliament position, and she’s busy with her own work, and the kids are everything to her, but she’s still not very happy. It's driving her away from him, and although they've never been exclusive, it's starting to take a toll. She’s been bugging him to move back to New York, maybe even DC, and she thinks she might be winning him over.

For now at least, she’s spending a month in the states while the kids are on their spring break. As much as she hates living an ocean away, it’s nice to have the kids school systems have alternating breaks so they get to know their cousins. It’s good for them to spend it at the Hamilton’s house as well. They fit right into the routine. Eliza handles all five children with unsurprising ease, taking James and baby John to the orphanage to play with the children there while she works mornings, picking up Alex from preschool and helping the older three with their homework when they come home from school. Eliza’s Philip is nine now and the spitting image of his father in more than just looks: his report cards are full of glowing compliments and gentle but pointed comments about his “strong personality” and “willingness to stick up for what he believes in.” Today, Angelica's namesake begged her to be guest reader, so she takes _Madeline_ and a box of macarons to her niece’s school and puts on a show.

She comes home (it's odd, but she feels weirdly at home at Alex and Eliza's) in the early afternoon and finds Eliza and Alex in the living room. Alex is dead asleep, head resting on Eliza’s chest and arms wrapped what must be almost uncomfortably tight around her waist. Eliza looks as calm as she’s ever been, reading one of her textbooks she’s resting on Alex’s back and vaguely watching Angelica’s own kids playing in the backyard.

Angelica’s mouth goes dry at the sight of them. The very picture of pure, perfect domestic bliss. She forces her intense jealousy back to the very depths of her mind and imagines that this is just her Eliza, who she loves more than anything in the world, and the man she happened to marry. It's been harder, the last year or so, being distant from JC and unsatisfied by Thomas and a few of her other casual friends in Britain. Her unhappiness only makes it more obvious how happy he and Eliza are. She can deal much easier when she makes herself forget that it’s him.

Eliza looks beautiful, content and smiling softly. Angelica takes a picture of the two of them and sends it to Peggy before she clears her throat gently.

Eliza jumps slightly, startled. Angelica’s noticed lately that when she’s around Eliza and Alex have been incredibly weird about even the slightest form of PDA. Probably because the kids are getting old enough to notice stuff like that, as if they somehow didn’t notice already how disgustingly in love their parents are.

(Angelica doesn't really mind not having to see that, if she's being honest.)

She looks for half a second like she’s going to twist out from under him, but her eyes go a little wide when Al- _her husband_ stirs slightly. He stills again when she runs a soothing hand through his hair, and Eliza flicks an apologetic glance at Angelica. Like Angelica hasn’t heard more than she ever wanted to about how exactly her niece and nephews were conceived.

Eliza lays her book down on his back and turns back to her sister. Angelica digs her nails into her palms, willing herself not to react. It’s the casual intimacies that get her the most.

“Hi,” she whispers. “How was Angelica’s class?”

“It was good! Little Me is so smart, she kept translating all the French words for everyone.”

“She’s just like you,” Eliza says proudly.

Angelica smiles, touched. “You’re sweet, Bets.” She looks down at her phone. Peggy replied with a wall of heart eye emojis. “Peg says hi.”

“Hi baby sis!”

She sends another photo back, this one of Eliza making her famous rosy cheek emoji face.

“What’s he doing home?” Angelica asks, motioning to mass of sleeping human on her sister’s chest.

“Forced day off,” Eliza explains. “The offices are all closed, and President Washington refuses to answer his emails on government holidays.”

“Looks like he’s taking full advantage,” Angelica jokes.

Eliza doesn’t laugh. “He needs it,” she says, gently pushing some of his long, messy hair out of his face. “He works so hard. It’s nothing new, this is how he’s always been, but he’s been especially stressed lately.”

“Because of the bank?”

She nods. “He practically killed himself trying to put the proposal together. He typed for so long he literally couldn’t move his fingers. I had to finish it for him.”

“Saint Elizabeth,” Angelica says fondly. “You know he couldn’t do any of this without you.”

She sighs, her face sliding into what Angelica recognizes as the “Elizabeth Schuyler is officially fucking pissed” face, appearing rarely but always devastating to those on the receiving end, including schoolyard bullies, her sisters’ ex boyfriends, and that one guy who called her “sweetheart” in the grocery store the other day.

“It’s Jefferson,” she says bitterly. “Madison, too. They take some perverse joy in trying to bring him down. It’s not enough that they ringlead all the southerners into voting against him. Jefferson picks fights with him every day in cabinet. Madison is almost worse. They were so close when they were writing the Federalist, and now he takes every opportunity to trash him in the press, like Alexander wasn’t most of the reason his Constitution was ratified. He’s really betrayed by it. I feel bad.”

“I know, Eliza, it’s hard,” Angelica says soothingly. “But he has to win. The fate of the country depends on it. Soon the bank will be chartered and he’ll have won, he just has to do whatever he can to get there.”

Eliza’s mouth twists. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but you really don’t know how hard it is. Don’t you think he already knows how much is at stake? And after the bank it’ll be another thing, and another, and another. It’s killing him and I have to watch. I used to think he was so selfish, an egomaniac, overly ambitious. He is all of those things, I know, but he isn’t doing this only for himself. Everyone needs him so much and he’s so scared of letting everyone down.” She sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be dramatic. It’s been hard lately. And I’m not ungrateful, I know how lucky we are, like existentially as a nation, and I am personally to have him, but that doesn’t make it less hard.”

“It’s him that’s lucky to have you,” Angelica says.

“I try. I’m the only person he has that never makes political demands on him and I intend to keep it that way. He needs at least one person he can lean on, and I’ll never take that away from him, but who am I supposed to turn to? He tries, it's not that he isn't there when I need him, but I feel guilty for putting my problems on him sometimes. Especially when they're things I can handle myself. But it's still hard.” Eliza reaches a hand out and grabs hers. “Why do you have to live in London? Everything is so much better when you’re here.”

Angelica’s chest tightens. She misses her sister every day they’re apart and is actively trying to forget they’ll be separated again.

Alex stirs again. Eliza tries to shush him back to sleep but he’s waking up for real now. Angelica grimaces, mouths "sorry," and tiptoes out of the room.

“Alexander, go back to sleep,” she hears Eliza say softly. Angelica masochistically pauses by the doorway to listen.

“‘M not tired, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

Eliza scoffs. “You’ve been passed out on top of me for two hours.”

“No, I was simply taking advantage of an opportunity to lay on top of you for two hours. You’re very comfortable, best of wives.”

A soft thud sounds, and Eliza starts laughing.

“You used me as a bookrest?”

“You literally just admitted to using me as a pillow.”

“My own wife, using me for my body,” he says indignantly. Eliza laughs harder. “I can’t believe this.”

“Poor baby, I’m sorry,” Eliza teases. “Next time I’ll just dog ear the page instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alex gasps, setting Eliza off again.

Her laughter stops suddenly, and it’s quiet for a long moment before Angelica hears what can only be the end of a kiss. She flees outside before she can hear what comes next, and lets Philip and Catherine distract her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i am going to shamlessly plug my angelica/tj story because they come up in this chapter even if the story is completely unrelated. "my declaration."
> 
> thank you again!


	20. a man of honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton looks pissed, possibly even very angry, but he still seems pretty relaxed for a guy who’s trying to keep a fling with his wife’s sister hidden. What the fuck does Jefferson know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> third scene takes place 5ish years after the first two.

FROM: eschuylerhamilton@gmail.com  
TO: a.ham@gmail.com  
SUBJECT: Hi

Our hopelessly urbanite kids are having a great time in what they call Nature. I attached a bunch of pictures.

The latest is growing by the day. I had to abandon the maternity swimsuit, which you know I hate anyway, but I feel kind of like a freak in a two piece so I’ve been mostly supervising. Four kids are far too many to put sunscreen on at once. I’ve tried to turn it into a game a few times and get them in an assembly line but then we have Alex getting slightly burnt with Philip’s name written on his back. Actually, it was P. Ham. Do you want to claim that or should we blame the boxing gloves? I already sent a pic to Hercules.

I hope you’re doing okay. I know we’ve been talking on the phone, and texting and stuff, but I want you to tell me if something’s wrong. I don’t like being a nag, and I hate when you make me feel like I need to, but please take care of yourself. For my sake if not your own. I worry about you just as much as you do me and the kids, if that puts it in any kind of perspective for you.

I don’t want to beg you to come up here, I know you’re busy and your work is important, so I’ll just say that I wish you were here, and I can’t wait to see you again, whenever that is.

I love you,

E

\---------

Maria Reynolds is a fucking idiot.

She is, she really is, she thinks to herself, riding an empty train home from Hamilton’s house. This isn’t the first time James has dragged her into one of his schemes, but this is the worst. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong what she’s doing. What James wants her to do, and what she’s willing to do to keep him from leaving her. She knows, but she keeps doing it anyway. He’s married, he’s famous, and she’s some idiot doing her best to ruin both of their lives.

Maria doesn’t really know what the deal is with them, what they’re always having low voiced phone conversations about, why James alternatively looks angry and pleased. Hamilton never, ever brings it up with her, not after that first email, not after he lost his temper and screamed at her, blamed her for ruining his life, accused her of being a whore and worse.

He came back anyway. Apologized for yelling at her, said he knew it wasn’t her fault, that he was the wrong one, and that night he touched her so gently she wanted to die. It wasn’t like James, though, it wasn’t the hint of sweetness that got her to stay through all the rest. He was unrelentingly kind to her, even with the overwhelming guilt in his eyes.

Every time he texts her, invites her over, falls into bed with her, it all has this tinge of spontaneity, impulsiveness, recklessness, like he can’t stop himself or didn’t think it all the way through. Maria knows she’s his bad habit, that mistake he keeps making over and over. It’s just… he’s so _good_ to her. All those gentle touches, the way he worries about her getting home after dark, and although she knows exactly who he is, the famous genius, he never once makes her feel stupid. But she knows, deep down, that it isn’t because of her, personally. That the kindness and decency that she so treasures is something that he doesn’t think about.

If he’s so nice to Maria, she can’t even imagine what he’s like with his wife. Maria doubts she knows what he’s really like, how desperate he can be, how needy. To be married to someone that knows everything about you sounds terrifying. Maria can’t imagine how horrible it would be if James knew all her deepest fears, her insecurities, all the things she thinks about late at night when she can’t sleep. Hamilton doesn’t bother to hide his weaknesses from Maria, but that’s because she doesn’t really matter. There’s no way his wife knows. She wonders if he’s ever yelled at her the way he did Maria that one time. Probably not, she looks like a perfect, precious little doll, too fragile to ever raise your voice at.

She’s desperate for information about Mrs. Hamilton. She takes her laptop into the bathroom with her one night after James falls asleep, locks the door and sits fully clothed in the empty tub and searches for whatever she can find. When they’re together, his wife is absolutely, non negotiable, Off Limits. Maria doesn’t need to ask, and she’s not stupid enough to bring her up, but the way he twitches when he accidentally says something that reminds him that she exists makes it abundantly clear.

At the same time, he fucks Maria in what must be their bed.

It’s not even Mrs., it’s _Doctor_ , Doctor Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton. Maria repeats all those long, important sounding names, turns them over and over and over again in her mind. Doctor Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton.

He calls her Eliza, Maria knows. Not because he’s ever once said his wife’s name in front of her, but because she finds paparazzi clips of the president, or Eliza's sister, and sees them in the background together, watches him whisper it into her ear. She reads interviews, where he fervently refuses to comment on his personal life but will have to stop himself from talking about her. Finds his Twitter, where his moratorium on discussing his family in the press doesn’t seem to extend, and it seems like every third one mentions her: “eliza told me not to watch meet the press but watching @thomasjefferson fail is the only thing that keeps me going” or “my son RAPS he is a GENIUS your kid COULD NEVER!!!! AND LIZA BEAT BOXED!!!!!! HERE ARE YOUR FAMILY GOALS, KIDDOS” or about once a month, “Eliza’s orphanage is doing incredible work for kids in need. Donate here: bit.ly_3902489.”

Maria reads all about the orphanage, about perfect Dr. Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton, Director of Development, and all the kids she saves. She knows _he’s_ an orphan. Again, not because of anything he’s ever told her but because she read it about him in some newspaper article. Maria wonders if that was why he married Eliza, because he thought she understood. Or maybe she wanted to fix him like she did the rest of them.

That’s probably why they have so many kids. Maria tells herself she’s not going to look up stuff about them, all five of them. (Another on the way, if that sonogram on the fridge is recent.) She does anyway. She doesn’t really know either of them well enough to say that the kids are just like them, but they do look like them, all dark hair and eyes and hyperactive social media.

Eliza’s someone that matters. Someone that really matters, it would seem. Maria finds tons of stuff on her father, sees her family all over the New York society pages. They’re rich, not just normal rich but _rich_ , the kind that means trust funds and yachts and skiing. Maria wonders how she feels about marrying him. Not that they don’t have money now, but their house is just so… not fancy. All the kids rooms (Maria opened every door in the house one night while he was asleep) are casual, clearly decorated however they want. The laundry room overflows with shoes in all sizes, the walls all scuffed and marked with the signs of tiny feet and hands. They have a few formal family pictures framed nicely and a fridge full of A+ papers and blurry snapshots.

Maria doesn’t get it. They seem stupid happy, their lives seem perfect. But he’s always stressed about something, working until late hours of the night or yelling into his phone, apologizing to her when he raises his voice a little too loud. He clearly loves his wife, but he keeps calling Maria, even after James makes it clear that he’s under the gun. Maybe he wants something for himself, after years of being a family guy. Maybe he needs something for stress relief with whatever's going on at the White House. Maybe he’s done everything right his whole life and can’t help himself from fucking up this one time.

Maria thinks it’s just that he doesn’t like sleeping alone.

\---------

  
Aaron should have known that Jefferson would be late, as usual, the total fucking entitled asshole, and that Madison would be with him. This is not what he signed up for, not that he signed up for any of this. But he's courting the Virginians, and Jefferson told him to be at Hamilton's office at three, and Hamilton did write a really dickish op-ed about Burr last month. So here he is, alone, sitting across from Hamilton and trying not to make eye contact.

“Mr. Burr, sir,” Hamilton says blithely, as if this is another one of his stupid jokes. “Senator Burr, sorry. How are the Theodosias?”

“Fine,” he answers tightly. He doesn’t want to remember when they used to be something like friends.

“Just ‘fine?’” Interesting,” he says, smiling like he knows something Aaron doesn’t.

“How are the Angelicas?” he says venomously.

Hamilton raises an insolent eyebrow. “They’re both wonderful. My daughter is starting to write her own pieces for the piano, and the elder is still in London. My wife’s name is Eliza, however, in case you’ve forgotten in your old age.”

Aaron doesn’t bother keeping the triumphant smile from his face. He can’t believe Hamilton took the bait on that one. “My mistake,” he says airily. “I forgot which sister you were married to and which you were fucking behind the other’s back.”

That finally gets a reaction out of him, the edges of his smile sharpening and something like a warning glinting in his eyes. “You’re very clever, Burr. B minus. Points off for total lack of basis in reality.”

Aaron forces himself to keep smirking back at him. If it isn’t that, then what is it? He’s never once seen Hamilton successfully control his temper, especially when his precious, sainted Eliza is involved. Aaron considers pushing it further, saying something directly negative about her to see what he’ll do, but drops it. He’ll find out soon enough. Hamilton looks pissed, possibly even very angry, but he still seems pretty relaxed for a guy who’s trying to keep a fling with his wife’s sister hidden. What the _fuck_ does Jefferson know?

As if on cue, that asshole bursts through the door, Madison silently crabby as always next to him.

“Gentlemen! How good of you to wait for us to get started,” Jefferson booms. “We have quite a lot to discuss. First of all, Hamilton’s tie. Heinous, is it not?”

“Get out, Jefferson, I have actual appointments.”

“We are your three o’clock, moron,” Jefferson says. “Check your schedule. It should say ‘Reynolds.’”

Hamilton gives him a dark look. “What is this?”

“What? I’m the Vice President, it’s a security risk to make these things under my real name. A precaution you should have considered taking,” Jefferson says, voice practically bursting with hidden implications.

Aaron watches Hamilton’s face shift, watches him carefully shutter his eyes, his emotions still so wide open after all this time. “So. What is it that you think you know?”

“We went through your accounts,” Jefferson says, smiling widely.

“Almost twenty thousand dollars.” Madison lays a thick folder on Hamilton’s desk. “Paid to a Mr. James Reynolds a few years ago.”

“Okay?” Hamilton crosses his arms over his chest. “You done?”

“Are you aware, former Secretary Hamilton-” Jefferson adores adding the unnecessary “former,” loves that Hamilton was fired by Jefferson’s friend Adams “-that a few weeks ago that same James Reynolds was arrested for speculation?”

“I was not. I still fail to see what that has to do with me.”

Jefferson muffles a cough that sounds a lot like “bullshit” into his hand.

“He named you as a co-conspirator,” Madison says. “Said that you embezzled government funds to do it. He said that you used your position to manipulate the markets for your own profit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hamilton scoffs. “It’s not true.”

Jefferson looks meaningfully at Aaron, and he suddenly understands why he’s here. No one knows how to push Alexander’s buttons like Aaron does.

“Really? Six kids don’t pay for themselves, and you just love telling everyone about the low salary a public servant gets,” Aaron says. “Unless you’re still relying on the Schuyler money.”

“Fuck you, Burr. I didn’t steal shit.”

“An immigrant embezzling our government funds,” Aaron says, ignoring Hamilton, directing it to Jefferson and Madison. There's almost nothing he hates more. “That’ll be the headline.”

“A good one,” Madison agrees. “Your career is done.”

Hamilton is fuming now, Aaron can see his hackles rising like a cornered, feral cat. “I didn’t-”

“I would say you should resign, but Adams already fired you,” Aaron muses. “I guess there’s nothing left for you to do except go back to wherever you came from.”

“Or further,” Jefferson adds. “Take your brood with you. We don’t need you tainting the gene pool.”

Aaron knows immediately that was too fucking far. Jefferson knows it, too, and doesn’t even get time to gloat before Hamilton is on his feet, face flushed red with rage.

“I didn’t steal anything!” he roars. “I gave him that money from my own personal accounts and it wasn’t used to speculate on anything!”

“Bullshit,” Jefferson says bluntly. “You don’t have that kind of money and why would you give it away for nothing?”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Hamilton hisses. “I can prove it.”

“By all means,” Jefferson says, kicking his feet up on the desk with a wave of his hand.

Hamilton knocks them off, glowering, and digs in his drawer for a file he throws at Aaron.

He opens it, reads aloud from the email on top. “Dear sir…” he trails off. Is this really what it looks like? He skips ahead to the salient details. “You see, that was my wife you decided to-” He stops when Madison rips the folder out of his hands and reads ahead.

“WHAT?” Jefferson jumps out of his chair, all but beaming with malicious delight. “YOU CHEATED ON YOUR WIFE?”

Aaron takes a second to thank God that Jefferson didn’t use Eliza’s name, because he really doesn’t feel like witnessing a murder today.

“Yes,” Hamilton answers simply. “I slept with her a few times, and then her husband extorted me.”

“And then you kept fucking her,” Madison says, looking up from the folder. “And kept paying him.”

The sound Jefferson makes can only be described as a cackle.

“Yes,” Hamilton confirms. “I did.”

“My God,” Jefferson wheezes, catching his breath. “You really are a depraved son of a bitch, you know that?”

“But I’m not a thief,” Hamilton says. “I’ve fucked up, sure, but I didn’t do this. I’m not corrupt and you can’t taint my name and my work at the treasury with this. I didn’t break the law, so I assume I can trust you three to keep this to yourselves?”

Jefferson opens his mouth but Hamilton swiftly cuts him off. “I think we can agree to keep private indiscretions private, Jefferson.”

“Fine,” Jefferson mutters.

“You really shouldn’t have pissed off Angelica,” Hamilton says with a dark, triumphant smile. Jefferson glares at him.

“Madison?”

“The people won’t know what we know. At least not from me,” he says gravely. “Let’s go.”

“Burr.”

Aaron watches Madison and Jefferson leave, turns around slowly to face Alexander.

“How do I know you won’t use this against me?”

“Because I won’t. But rumors only grow,” he says. A warning, though an unnecessary one. Aaron doesn’t want to use his personal mistakes against him, but they both know Jefferson and Madison don’t have those qualms.

“Never a fucking straight answer with you,” Hamilton says bitterly. “Get the fuck out.”

“I’m already gone,” he says, closing the door softly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP. BYE. I HATE.
> 
> (update should be coming pretty quickly, though! i'm stuck on my declaration and have most of the following chapters written already.)
> 
> also maria reynolds deserves better and i'm already kicking around a full length fic about her in my mind


	21. you and your words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought I knew the worst already. You told me everything, literally everything, about your life, your parents, your brother, John, everything. Was it because you actually trusted me or because you thought I was too stupid to tell anyone? It doesn't matter now, anyway. I thought if the only thing you had to hide was your fling with and crush on my sister than it would be okay. I already knew the worst thing you could ever tell me, the only thing that could ruin us and I could take it. But this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what this is. about six months after the last chapter.
> 
> GOODBYE. I AM SORRY.

Alexander has only barely finished fixing the damage he did to his office the day Jefferson, Madison, and Burr stopped by when someone leaks a photo of him and Maria.

The first thing he breaks this time is a coffee mug, hurled at the wall, still half full.

The second is the lamp, the one that took six weeks to get here to replace the one he broke last time, when he kicks over a chair that knocks over a side table that the lamp falls off of and shatters, when he sees a clip of Maria talking into some blogger’s iPhone camera, saying “yes, I did have an affair with Alexander Hamilton.”

He’s not sure what the third thing is to break, but soon he’s standing in the middle of a hurricane of paper and there are multiple dents in the wall. He’s not sure what happened, but he knows what he did.

Lots of people call him by his full name, it’s not that. But no one says it the way Eliza does. It’s like she needs the two extra syllables to fully communicate what she’s trying to say. She needs them all to be annoyed, worried, tired, and sympathetic when he comes home too late, to be excited, scared, impatient, and awestruck when she tells him she’s pregnant again. He loves the way the “xander” sounds in her voice when she smiles. She always uses all four syllables, making the moments he takes her breath away and she can’t finish that much sweeter.

No one else gets to use his name the way she does. Seeing _her_  use it so casually in the video, especially when she never called him much of anything (baby, sexy, daddy) during their time together, breaks something deep inside him.

“FUCK!” he explodes, shoving whatever he can reach off his desk.

What is he supposed to do? If it’s on Drudge now, it’ll be everywhere by tomorrow. No matter how ludicrous the charges, Jefferson and his ilk will have the entire country suspicious and the Democratic Republicans ready to declare war. Alex isn’t stupid, he knows just how precarious a position the financial system is in. Any sign of corruption spells its doom; every congressman will fight for their chance to score political points by denouncing it on TV. How unfair, for everything he’s worked for to be destroyed over something that isn’t even true.

And Eliza... he can’t even think about it. Can’t even think about confessing this to her, watching her face as he tells her what he’s done. He shoves her out of his mind.

Alexander has to choose: his past or his future. Everything he’s done, the legacy he’s fought to build, or his chance at the presidency and further advancement. This isn’t fucking fair.

Whoever leaked those photos doesn't get to destroy everything he did because of one mistake. They don't get to shit all over the name and the reputation he killed himself to build, that he sacrificed time with his family and his health to achieve. They don't get to take it from him without a fight.

He sits down, opens his computer, and two hours later it’s done. He emails it to every reporter he knows and tweets a link to a PDF copy before putting his aching head down and falling into an exhausted sleep.

The phone ringing wakes him up three hours later, and doesn't stop. Six o'clock news is starting, and everyone wants the scoop on the scandal like he didn't just give it to them, all twelve thousand words of it. Hasn't he done enough already? He attempts to get some more work done, but the phone is ringing too loudly and he got yelled at the last time he took his office phone off the hook. He doesn’t want to be here or on the train when the news hits anyway, so he grabs a cab home.

Only when he's in the back of the car does the weight of what he did hit him.

Not the affair. He came to his own terms with that a long time ago. He knows it was wrong, regrets it every day, feels sick with guilt every time he remembers.

As for the pamphlet... it had to be this way. It was the only way out. Washington isn't around to cover for him anymore, his friends are oceans away, John has been gone for years. There's no one left to run to when he needs help. But he's survived worse, and Alexander knows what it's like to fight for himself when no one else cares.

Maria didn't deserve anything that happened to her. He knows that she didn't come to him of her own free will, and stayed for a number of reasons, none of which he likes to think about for too long. Alex knows he shouldn't have kept it going, but he couldn't abandon her, not when she was so sad, so needy, so alone. Trapped in a marriage that could go nowhere, raising a child essentially on her own, isolated from family and friends with nowhere else to go... he couldn't do it.

Alex has always known that he's fucked up. That it was only a matter of time before he did something that would ruin his life. This isn't news to him.

But he doesn't want his kids to have to see this. They're too young, they won't understand. They won't understand why he had to. How he did this for them, really. He's tried so hard to be a good father, to be someone worthy of them, and he can't have lies about him ruining that. Their father is _not_ a thief. He doesn't beg other people for money, doesn't email his son he hasn't seen in years and ask him to cover his debts, doesn't taint the family name by getting involved in one get-rich-scheme after another. Alexander doesn't break the law. He's an honorable man, someone his kids can be proud of.

That doesn't mean he's a good person. He tries very, very hard, not to think about Eliza. What he's done to her, not only with the affair but with how she'll have to find out.

She always was too good for someone like him.

He squints, stepping out of the car. It's gotten bright out. Funny, how time keeps passing. God, what he wouldn't give to go back to being twenty five and surrounded by people he loved and hadn't let down yet.

 ---------

He finally goes upstairs, hours after it gets dark, hours after Angelica arrives, gives him the coldest glare he's ever seen, takes the kids back with her to the hotel “for a sleepover," leaving him alone. Hours after the last sound he heard from up there. Hours Eliza has spent alone.

All he wants is Eliza. All he wants is to hold her and ignore the rest of the world and let her heartbeat lull him to sleep. How unfair, that the only person he could find solace in is the only one he can’t.

She’s sitting on the floor in their bedroom, papers scattered on the floor around her. He recognizes his own handwriting and feels sick all over again.

“I saved every letter you wrote me.” She doesn’t look at him. “From the moment I read them I knew you were mine. You chose me, remember? I thought you were mine.”

She takes a shaky breath. “Your letters, god, I never stood a chance. You built me palaces out of paragraphs. Cathedrals, even. It was all right there, the life we would have,” she says wistfully. “I could see it so vividly, and all I had to do was take your hand and it would be mine.”

She picks up a page at random and scans it, brow furrowed like it’s in some language she can’t read. “I found mine, too. I’ve been rereading them all afternoon. I was looking for some kind of clue or sign, something that could have warned me that you would do this or that you somehow fooled me. I guess I should have known all along.

Alex can't breathe, can't think about anything but the way the paper shakes in her hands. God, what has he done?

"I thought I knew the worst already. You told me everything, literally everything, about your life, your parents, your brother, John, everything. Was it because you actually trusted me or because you thought I was too stupid to tell anyone? It doesn't matter now, anyway. I thought if the only thing you had to hide was your fling with and crush on my sister than it would be okay. I already knew the worst thing you could ever tell me, the only thing that could ruin us and I could take it. But this…”

She finally looks at him. “You published the letters she wrote to you,” she says, voice full of hurt. “You told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed. You don't talk about me, you don't talk about the kids, but you tell everyone this."

"That's not- that's not what I was doing," he pleads. "I didn't mean it like that."

"What are we supposed to do now? We have six children, William is barely a month old. What are we supposed to say to them?”

“What do you mean?” He leans back against the wall, horrorstruck. “Are you going to…” He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t make the possibility that she’ll leave him real.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says blankly. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Please don’t leave,” he whispers.

She looks down at her twisting hands, giving no indication she heard him. “Do you know what Angelica said when she read what you’d done?” she asks quietly. “’You’ve married an Icarus, and he’s flown too close to the sun.’ I should have listened to her. She knew you would do this. She had the proof. Was the proof.”

“Eliz-”

“You and your words,” she spits, picking up her laptop. “That’s what it always comes down to with you. You and your words, at the cost of everything and everyone else. Obsessed with your legacy. God, what else is new? Pathetic. You are so paranoid, even after all these years, how they perceive you. What do you have left to prove?”

 _Everything_ , he once screamed at her. He can’t remember why anything ever mattered to him that much.

She wipes her eyes roughly and begins to gather up the scattered papers. “Fuck your legacy. I won't give you the photo ops, let you protect your precious reputation with a picture of me standing by you. I’m not giving any scorned wife interviews. Let them all wonder how Eliza reacted when you broke her heart.” She drops the stack into the trashcan.

“They already think they know, anyway,” she mutters, digging in their bedside table for something unseen. “I can’t wait to see the shit they make up. How I refused to have sex with you after so many kids, so you went and got it somewhere else. Or maybe you’re into something weird and I’ve never heard of positions besides missionary. At least it was a woman, so they can’t bring your sexuality into it, though I bet it won’t stop them.” She laughs bitterly. “Poor, sweet, Eliza, her whole life destroyed by her husband she’s done nothing but worshipped and adored for years. Of course she didn’t know, how could anyone as innocent and trusting and _fucking naive_ as her possibly suspect he was cheating on her? God, I am so, so sick of everyone thinking I’m stupid.”

“I have NEVER, ever thought that,” he swears vehemently. “You’re not stupid. That’s ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t matter, they made up their minds about me a long time ago. The entire world already thought I was too dumb to keep up with you, too sheltered to give you what you need, too blind to see what was going on in my own house. And you made that true. All the worst things others have said about me and I’ve thought about myself, you made those real for the first time in my life. What am I supposed to do now?” She looks at him, eyes wild, a matchbook clutched in her shaking hand. “I’m not even a person anymore. I’m just Alexander Hamilton’s poor, pathetic scorned wife.”

“Stop it,” he begs. “Please, Eliza, stop.”

"It's already done. You did it." She pauses, looks at him and he can't breathe. "Did you think about me at all? Not the affair, that I know you didn't. But when deciding to do this? Did it even cross your mind to come to me?"

He swallows down the guilt constricting his throat. "I didn't think-"

"You did," she says coldly. "And then you chose to make me find out this way. Because I wasn't worth a fucking phone call."

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"No, you wanted to do whatever you wanted and then for me not to not be hurt by it. I mean Jesus, I've hurt people that I care about, but at least I can admit that I knew I was wrong."

"I was wrong," he says. "I thought I could fix it."

“By what, smashing something broken into pieces?"

"I'm sorry," he says finally, even though he knows it's too late.

"I’m burning everything I wrote you. Everything,” she swears, lighting a match and dropping it in the trash can. “The world has no right to my heart, or place in our bed, our private lives. They don’t get to know what I said. Not now, not before, not _ever_.”

She looks at him again, face lit up by flames, with that detached sorrow and gives a little broken laugh. “It’s funny, they might have redeemed you a little.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. "Eliza, god, you don't know how much.

"Good, you should be. You’ve torn it all apart.” Her mouth twists. “Now get out.”

“Please,” he tries again, stepping closer to her.

“No,” she says shakily, backing away. “You forfeit all rights to my heart. You forfeit a place in our bed. Go sleep in your office instead.”

“I can’t lose you.”

“You’ll have your memories,” she says coldly. “You should have thought about that before you did this. I’ve already watched you lie to me for half our lives. I won’t do it anymore. Go away.”

“Eliza, please.” He reaches for her desperately.

“No!” she shrieks. “No, Alexander, I can’t even look at you right now. Please go away, I can’t look at you without picturing you with her and hearing you describe it in all that vivid, gory detail and it’s making me sick. It’s like everything is burning, I need it to stop or I’ll go insane. Please, get out.”

He takes one last look at her, and knows the sight of her broken, tear stained face will haunt him forever. He closes the door on his way out, and hears her burst into sobs to match his own.


	22. the world was wide enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would seem Eliza’s always known more than they’ve given her credit for. Not Alexander, he amends. He always knew how special she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last real chapter! please forgive me for writing self indulgent scenes and getting a little #meta at the end.
> 
> i took peggy's historical illness and made it cancer. she's in remission around the time of this, but it was worse a few years back, right around the time alexander left the treasury.
> 
> this is mostly other people's observations, not nearly as painful as the last few. if you're interested in the Emotions of it all, might i casually suggest my 'a matter of time' series? 0:)
> 
> i also finally collected all my inspiration and some cut scenes and put it on tumblr, at [iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com](http://iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com/). please come talk to me!!!!! i don't really have any multi chapter things after this (though i do have a few things in the works) and i already am missing screaming in the comments with people. i would love to scream over there.

Peggy tries to take care of Eliza after the whole Maria Reynolds thing, but it proves pretty difficult.

Eliza’s angry at EVERYONE. Not just her husband and not just for the obvious reasons. She’s furious with James Monroe, who she found out is the one that leaked the information and the videos. She rails against the Democratic-Republicans for trying to malign Alex’s reputation further. She may be pissed about the pamphlet, but she understands what Alex was trying to do. He’s not corrupt, he’s not a speculator, and it’s been proven in vivid color. No one knows that better than she does. Yet they still hurl those empty accusations at him, infuriating both of them. She hates all the Southerners for the glee they take in it, but that’s nothing new. Hates the press, for harassing both of them and rehashing it over and over and over again.

She even gets mad at Peggy, who when trying to comfort her calls Alex a piece of shit and a garbage husband.

“Peggy,” she sighs. “He’s not a terrible person. He’s a fucking idiot, and he did a horrible thing, but he’s not a bad husband and he’s certainly not a bad father.”

Peggy doesn’t disagree... entirely. Alex isn’t a bad person, but he really is a piece of shit sometimes.

“I even get it, a little,” Eliza says late one night, curled up on Peggy’s couch. “They’re wrong in the papers every day about me, and I know it doesn’t matter, I really do, but I can’t help but want to correct them.”

“They’re all trash, babe,” Peggy says. “They love a good scandal, they’ll make up anything to sell papers.”

“But they’re so wrong! Alexander works all the time but he really has never been very absent. And they love to make up things about our supposedly nonexistent sex life when we have literally six children. It’s not like he had to go somewhere else to get his dick sucked.”

“I know, Eliza. None of this was your fault. It wasn’t about you, it was about him.”

That line, which comforted her last week, sends Eliza into an hour long sulk. “Nothing’s about me,” she says bitterly. “They don’t even talk about _me_ when they’re talking about me, it’s always ‘what does _he_ think of her doing this?’ Like when they shoved that pic where it looked like I was crying in front of him. Remember?”

Like she could ever forget. It was the final straw before Alex called whoever he knows at NSA or CIA or whatever and got them to leave Eliza alone. The video ran on the news for three days, Alex yanking the photo out of the paparazzi guy’s hands and screaming at him about privacy and decency and respecting people’s families. Which, while a little ironic coming from him, was completely true. Alex has always had a point, even when the vein in his forehead looks close to bursting and he’s videotaped calling someone “a scum of the earth styrofoam for brains jacks off in his mother’s basement voyeuristic motherfucker.”

Eliza laughed out loud when she saw it but didn’t speak to Alex for a week, continues to walk the impossible line of hating Alex and defending him with little satisfaction.

She does, however, break Thomas Jefferson’s nose.

On what turned out to be the single greatest afternoon of Peggy’s life, they were trying to find Eliza a dress for some work thing she had that evening and coming up short. Peggy kept suggesting shorter and tighter, come on Eliza you’re like the definition of a MILF; and Eliza kept demurring, insisting that she’s a Doctor of Psychology™, this is a work function, she has to be appropriate.

There was nothing to be done but to invite themselves over to borrow something from Angelica, who practically invented looking both devastatingly hot and terrifyingly professional at the same time.

“Gel?” Eliza calls into the hallway. “It’s us. I need to borrow a dress.”

“A hot one!” Peggy adds.

“Decent! Appropriate for a work function!” Eliza yells, leading the way through Angelica and JC’s house, poking her head in every room. “But hot!”

Eliza opens the door to the library and Peggy runs into her back.

“Okay, ow,” she complains, pushing against Eliza’s back. She doesn’t move.

“Afternoon, ladies,” a deep voice drawls.

Oh, Christ. She shoves her way past Eliza and puts on her best fake smile. “Hi, Mr. Vice President. Lovely to see you. Where’s Angelica?”

Jefferson shrugs, doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled out on the enormous leather couch Church insisted on shipping over from England. “Took a phone call. In her bedroom, I expect.”

“Great!” Peggy starts nudging Eliza, trying to make their exit as quickly as possible. “We’ll go find her, just borrowing a dress, Eliza has a thing tonight, and you know how those can be,” she rambles, shoving at Eliza who will not fucking move.

“The benefit for Graham-Windam? Yes, I know,” he says, finally sitting up. “I’ll be there. Subbing in for John.”

“I didn’t know President Adams wasn’t coming,” Eliza says icily, finally breaking her silence. “I confirmed with him yesterday.”

“Yes, well, change of plans. I’ll really be earning that ‘vice’ title this evening.” He gives Eliza an unreadable smile. “How have you been, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“It’s-” Peggy jumps in. Eliza doesn’t really care, but the rest of them do.

“Sorry, Dr. Schuyler-Hamilton. My mistake,” he lies. “It’s a shame we haven’t seen you around the District lately. I was speaking with Martha Washington the other day who mentioned how much she misses you.”

“Martha hates you,” Angelica says from behind her sisters. “Hi, guys. He was just leaving.”

Jefferson scowls. “It’s still true.”

“Bye, Thomas,” Angelica says pointedly.

He rolls his eyes but heaves all six foot whatever of himself off of the couch, slipping back into his shoes, adjusting his tie, and even though Peggy doesn’t sleep with men, she knows what just-fucked looks like. God, Angelica, still? Him? Really?

“See y’all later,” he says, slipping past them out the door. “Hope all’s well with the kids, Eliza.”

And then Eliza hauls back an arm and punches him in the face, hitting his nose with a crack almost as loud as Angelica’s startled “what the fuck!”

“You’re disgusting,” Eliza hisses. “You linked that trash pamphlet to my son.”

“I’m not the one who wrote it, that’s your shitty husband,” Jefferson says defensively through his hands, and oh fuck, that is definitely blood between his fingers. “It was public, he would have seen it anyway.”

“HE IS A CHILD! YOU ARE THE GODDAMN VICE PRESIDENT, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Eliza lunges forward and Peggy, with strength she didn’t know she had anymore, grabs her around the waist and hauls her back before she can do something else unexpected and badass. “I know you had something to do with leaking the pictures in the first place.”

“Monroe-”

“I know it was Monroe, I’m not fucking stupid,” she snarls. “But I know you were involved. Do not even think about any member of my family again. Not my children, not Alexander, no one.”

“This feels like misplaced anger, I’m not the one who-”

“Thomas, out,” Angelica snaps, shoving him down the hall, slamming the door behind him. When she comes back, Peggy’s still holding Eliza tightly, her ribs pushing against Peggy’s arms with every deep, shuddering breath.

“Well,” Angelica says. “I think we could all use a drink or six.”

Peggy nods. “Amen. Bets, can I let go now?”

“Yeah,” Eliza says dazedly, lets herself be pulled into Angelica’s kitchen and sat at the table while Angelica pours two huge glasses of wine, gives Peggy a fancy flavored water so she can feel less like a cancer patient. “Are the Secret Service going to come after me? I just assaulted an elected official.”

“Isn’t there something about having cause or whatever? Angelica, you’re the lawyer.”

Angelica shrugs. “I don’t know about you guys, but I saw him take a particularly nasty fall tripping on his own shoes. Our sweet little Eliza is too short to punch anyone that tall in the nose.”

“I’ve never hit anyone in my life,” Eliza says mildly. “Much less our esteemed Vice President. They know what high regard I’ve always had for him.”

All three of them dissolve into laughter, and spend the afternoon trying to find the perfect “boardroom slash boxing ring” dress to commemorate the occasion.

At the event that evening, Peggy finds Alex to talk shit in the corner as usual. She’s still furious with him, but Eliza made them promise that they would be nice and let the two of them sort things out.

He, interestingly enough, also looks like he’s been drinking all afternoon. Peggy’s concerned for a moment before she remembers that his hot French friend is in town and how that usually ends with hangovers for everyone.

“Oh my god,” Alex says, staring at something across the room. “Look how fucked up Jefferson’s face is. Do you think his agent would tell me who did it? I want to send them flowers.”

Peggy looks at him skeptically. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” He says absently, craning his neck to get a better look. “He can’t even smirk with his nose like that! That’s the cruelest thing anyone could have done to him!”

“Alex,” Peggy says, sharp enough to get his attention. “That was Eliza.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, still instantly uncomfortable at the sound of Eliza’s name. “What?”

“She’s the one who hit him,” Peggy says slowly, trying to get it through the alcohol, his thick skull, and wide, blank eyes. “Earlier today. At Angelica’s.”

“No way,” he scoffs. “El- she wouldn’t. She didn’t even hit me.”

“She did.” She weighs the pros and cons in her head, tries to decide if telling Alex why will get Jefferson another punch and if it’s worth it in a public place. It is. “Apparently he sent Philip links to your... thing? When it came out?”

Alex scowls and drains his drink. “He did. I told him I would kill him if he ever spoke to any of them again.”

“No government officials, former or otherwise, are killing any others on my watch.” Peggy decides he isn’t drinking anything else tonight. “Anyway, he mentioned the kids and Eliza freaked and hit him. Hard, too. It was incredible.”

“Damn,” he whistles, long and low. “For real?”

“For real.”

The biggest, brightest, shiniest, most ecstatic grin Peggy has ever seen takes over his entire face. “I love her.”

“I know.” Peggy grabs the last champagne flute from a waiter before Alex can. God, she misses drinking.

“I love her so fucking much. She’s the best, you know? I mean, shit. I love her.”

“I know.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, crashing down as quickly as he rose. “I love her and she hates me.”

“No, idiot, she doesn’t,” Peggy says gently. “She just needs time. Let her have it.”

“Yeah,” he says moodily.

Jesus, he’s worse than his preteen children. “Alex, if I let you go threaten Jefferson a little do you promise not to sulk all night?”

“No,” he mumbles, before watching Jefferson cut himself off mid laugh with a pained grimace. “Yes.”

“C’mon,” she says, grabbing his arm. “What are you gonna say?”

“I have some information I could share with the press.” He grins again, wickedly this time. “Or I could tell Eliza. See who he’s more scared of.”

“Easy choice.”

\---------

Lafayette never thought he would be scared of Eliza Schuyler, but he’s been standing at the bottom of the steps to their front door for a solid five minutes now and can’t convince himself to go up.

He’s not entirely sure why he’s here, alone, instead of just coming home with Alexander after he was done with work, but he is. He got Georges to ask Philip, told him to make up some excuse to figure out Eliza’s work schedule. It was kind of stupid, the lengths he went to for this when he could have called, should have called weeks ago, but he’s here now and there’s no turning back.

Of all the stupid things being friends with Alexander has made him do. He rings the doorbell.

It’s just long enough that he’s about to leave when she opens the door, and all Lafayette can think about is how much she looks like Alexander. Dark, messy ponytail, circles under her eyes, the weight of the world on those shoulders.

Whatever softness might have been left in her disappears when she sees him. “He’s not here,” she says flatly. “Try his office.”

“Eliza, I came to see you,” he says quickly, watching the door inch shut out of the corner of his eye. “If that is alright, of course.”

She wavers and he holds his breath. Eliza is polite, but she’s not a pushover, and she won’t let him in just because he asked.

“Do you promise he didn’t ask you to come?”

“I promise. He does not know. He will not,” Lafayette adds, “if that is what you want.”

“Okay,” she relents. “Come in.”

He’s barely stepped through the door when her arms are locked around his waist, her head buried in his chest and she’s not crying but her shoulders are shaking with every deep, ragged breath. It hurts, to see her this way, when he always thought that she was the strong one. He remembers how sure he was that Alexander would never hurt her.

“I will not defend him,” he promises, holding her as tight as he can. “He is my dearest friend, but there is no excuse. He is horrible to do this to you.”

“He is,” she says brokenly. “He’s so awful.”

“I know.”

At that she does start crying, and he steers her through the unfamiliar house - has it really been that long since he’s visited them? - and guides her gently onto a couch.

She sobs into his shoulder, and he remembers that he only ever thought that Alexander would never hurt her _on purpose_. They were all wrong about that.

He feels incredibly guilty for the part he’s played in all the fucked up things that have happened to Eliza. For not pushing Alexander to be up front about Angelica, for letting him and Laurens continue to dance on the line of being blatantly in love even after Alexander got engaged, for not fighting harder to keep him from being sent home in the state he was in after Washington fired him. And that was just the beginning.

He’s been needed, back in France, trying to start his own revolution, but it hasn’t left much time to keep in touch. It’s not like Alexander doesn’t have Eliza, his family, other friends, but there’s almost no one left from those days of the war, those days that are impossible to understand unless you were there. Hercules is off running the CIA, making them all proud, unfortunately unreachable for months at a time. Alexander has always refused to confide in Washington, his friendship with Burr blew up a few years ago, and Laurens… anyway, he doesn’t have too many people to turn to.

Lafayette isn’t sure he could have stopped Alexander from being unfaithful in the first place, but he might have been able to keep him from going back. He knows he could have convinced him not to give into blackmail. He’s very nearly certain he could have talked him out of publishing a confession, and at the very least he could have made sure he told Eliza first. He knows Alexander isn’t his charge to take care of, but Alexander would have done the same if Lafayette needed it.

Eliza catches her breath. “They don’t get why I don’t hate him.”

“You could, if you wanted to. It would be fair,” he says gently.

“I know. But I still don’t. They don’t get what he’s like.”

Lafayette does. He sighs heavily, tips his head back against the couch. “They could not. You can only know Alexander if you love him. If he loves you. A lovely curse he is.”

“I guess. None of them get it,” she says, staring at her hands in her lap. “Not even Angelica.”

He doesn’t think, just sits up straight and looks at her with alarm.

“Yeah,” she laughs without humor. “I know. I always did. I don’t care.”

“I see,” he manages through his surprise that somehow feels uncomfortably familiar. “And does-”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few years ago. I thought he knew the whole time.”

“I see,” he says again. There it is: this is almost exactly how he found out that Eliza knew about Alexander’s continued feelings for Laurens. He feels stupid for being surprised for the second time. He should know better by now.

“Angelica still doesn’t know,” she says, frowning guiltily. “She doesn’t know what I did to her.”

“It is water under the bridge. You were children,” he says. “We were all children. We did not know what we were doing. And you do not regret it.”

“No,” she sighs, “I don’t. Even now, it was worth it. Even when it was hard.”

“It has been harder than you deserve.”

“I don’t really see it that way,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean I guess I could have married someone more stable or that worked less or whatever, but they wouldn’t have been him. I wanted him. I knew what that meant.”

It would seem Eliza’s always known more than they’ve given her credit for. Not Alexander, he amends. He always knew how special she was.

“Why’d you come now? Why didn’t you come with him later?” she asks. Not accusingly, but curiously.

He shrugs, suddenly shy. He wasn’t counting on her knowing so much, being able to see through him so easily. “I wanted to see you. He cannot be there for you right now and I wanted to make sure you were alright. I know that... I know Alexander is my friend, but you and I have known each other for a long time, and I do not want you to think that because I care for him I do not care for you. I do not know. That does not make sense.”

“No, no, it does,” she says, grabbing his hand. “I appreciate it.”

“I also want you to know that I did not know. About what he did. I would have stopped him.”

“You would have tried,” she says, with a small, sad smile. “I know you would have.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she curls into him with a soft sigh.

“I’m glad you’re in town,” she says. “We’ve missed you. The kids are begging to go to France for a visit.”

“You should come. Really,” he says emphatically. The children really would love it, they’ve grown up only seeing the younger Hamiltons on holidays and have recently begun texting and Skyping throughout the year. Adrienne adores having company, and it’s not like the massive estate he has to maintain is good for anything else. He would love for Alexander to get to come visit as well, take a break from his work. Enjoy things a little.

“Maybe in the summer. Once this blows over a little.”

“Will it?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, it will. I don’t… I don’t want to leave him.”

“Good.”

“Please don’t tell him that,” she says hesitantly. “I want to forgive him, but I can’t have him pressuring me into it.”

“I would never,” he promises.

“Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a while. He can sense that Eliza needs someone to lean on, and he can do that, if nothing else, for her.

The shadows have begun to slant across the floor by the time she speaks again. “I should probably go check on the baby. He’s been asleep for two hours, that’s usually his limit.”

“Yes. I should go before he returns,” he says reluctantly. “He can be very jealous.” The last thing Lafayette wants is for Alexander to see him holding his wife when he hasn’t really spoken to her in weeks.

“Of me or you?” Eliza says dryly. “I was going to say we shouldn’t let him see us sitting so close together if we don’t want to short circuit him. I don’t think he could help himself - even now - begging for a threesome.”

Lafayette’s jaw drops open. “ _Merde_ , Eliza.”

She giggles, pulls him up from the couch. “I’m only half kidding.”

“I know,” he laughs, still a little stunned as he follows her to the door. “Why do you think I have to leave now?”

“Well. We’ll see you at Thanksgiving,” she says with a smile and kisses him softly on the cheek. “Bye, Laf.”

\---------

“We’re moving,” Angelica informs Philip, barging into his room and sprawling on his bed while he does his calc homework.

“For real?” He swallows. “All of us?”

“Yes Philip, all of us,” she says with a withering look.

He raises his hands, surrendering. “I don’t know, maybe it’s finally happening. Not that I want it to, obviously, but you know.”

“No, you’re right,” she concedes. “But it’s been almost a year. If it was going to happen it would have.”

Dad appears in the doorway, looking disheveled and bored. “What are you two doing?”

Angelica meets Philip's eyes, shaking her head slightly. The move is a secret, then?

“Calc homework, very busy,” Philip says. He really does need to do this, even if it isn’t urgent, and that look on Dad’s face usually means he’s looking for some kind of weird bonding experience. Last weekend he dragged Philip with him downtown to the White House, where he hasn’t worked in years but still likes to sneak in just to prove that he can.

“Where is your sense of teenage rebellion?” he says, mock aghast, but he has that sappy _“my son”_ look on his face. “Angelica?”

“No,” she says bluntly. “I have a study schedule and you’re not messing it up.”

“My children are nerds,” he sighs heavily.

She sits up, eyes narrowed. “Aunt Angelica told me that you once turned in a thousand page report to Congress three weeks early, so I really don’t think you should be the one calling people nerds.”

“That was different,” he insists. “They were being assholes.”

“I wonder why,” Philip deadpans.

Dad shakes his head but his lips twitch. “Fine. I’ll go spend some time with my other children, the ones young enough to remember when I literally gave them life.”

“I’m sure you can find one that might be interested, there are six of us,” Angelica says absently, attention already back on her phone.

“Yes, angel, there are, but only one of you,” he says, and kisses the top of her head before bounding back into the hall.

She lays back down. “They named me after Aunt Angelica. There are literally two of me.”

Philip snorts. “Well, there’s three of me. Phil and I are pretty much the same age, that’s even weirder.”

“Oh!” Dad pokes his head back in. “Do either of you know where your mother is?”

Angelica shakes her head.

“I think she was with Aunt Peggy. She should be home soon. Just text her,” Philip says, regretting it a little when Dad grimaces and ducks back out.

He turns back to Angelica. “Where are we moving?”

She shrugs. “Back to New York, I think. I heard Dad talking about it.”

“With Mom?”

“No, he was on the phone with someone. But I don’t know. Maybe they’ve talked about it.”

This time, Philip has the skeptical look. “Mom doesn’t want to talk to him.”

“He’s too scared to talk to her,” Angelica counters.

“It’s both.”

“Yeah.” She hums thoughtfully. “At least no one left. And neither of them are dead.”

“Jesus Christ, Angelica!”

“I'm just saying. Theo’s mom died. That seems worse.”

“This isn't the parental tragedy Olympics,” he snaps.

“I was just saying, Philip, chill.”

“Well don't. And don't ever say that again. Especially not where Dad might hear.”

“Oh,” Angelica says. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Don't.” He takes a deep breath, tries to relax, tries to keep himself from yelling at her. She didn't mean it, and if he raises his voice Dad (or a thousand times worse, Mom) will definitely hear and then they'll have to explain and that's the last thing Philip wants.

“I forgot,” she says, looking down at her hands exactly like Mom does.

“We talked about it. The other day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. After I hit Eaker.”

“That's what it takes to get information out of him? I should get suspended, too.” Philip ignores her. She glib when she's uncomfortable and it's always irritating. “What did he say?”

“You should ask him yourself. It's not really my shit to tell.”

“Right, I forgot that being the first born son means you get special privileges,” she sighs.

“It wasn't like that,” he protests. “It was an in the moment thing. I'm sure he'll talk to you if you ask.”

Someone knocks lightly on his door.

“Come in!”

“Hi,” Mom says. “We're eating in twenty. Peggy too.”

“Okay,” Philip says. “Sounds good.”

“Is your father home?” she asks, very casually, dark eyes bouncing from Philip to Angelica to the floor and back again. Ever since his conversation with Dad the other day, Philip can't stop dividing his parents into two sets of people: Mom and Dad and Alexander and Eliza. It's a little disorienting, remembering that they have drama and feelings and fuck ups just like he does, that they're not two strong, perfect adults sprung into life to be his parents.

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I didn't think he would be yet,” she says, smiling a little funnily to herself. “Good.”

“I'll tell him we’re eating, I think he's bugging one of the other boys,” Angelica offers.

“Thanks,” she says faintly, then turns business and Mom like again. “Is your homework done?”

“Forty five percent,” Angelica answers. “I'm on a schedule.”

“As long as that schedule involves bed at a reasonable hour,” she warns. “Pip?”

“When I'm done with this, yes. But we should let the record show that lawyers don't need to do calculus.”

Mom laughs a little, fond and exasperated all at once. He loves making her smile like that. “Overruled. Don't be late for dinner. P brought pie for dessert.”

She leaves and Philip goes back to frowning at his paper.

“Has she talked to you too?” Angelica asks.

“Is that in addition to Dad or you?”

“Dad.”

“No.”

Angelica sighs. “I wish she would. I hate that they leave us in the dark, “your mother” this, “your father” that, and neither of them will talk to us like we're people and not idiots.”

“I don't think I really want to know.”

“How could you not?”

“I don't want to hear about how Mom hates him or how he’s losing his fucking mind every day,” Philip says quietly. “Because she does. And he is. There are some things I can’t know about them if I want them to keep being my parents, not Alexander and Eliza.”

“No way,” she says, shaking her head emphatically. “I want to know. So bad. Aunt Angelica tells me a lot of stuff about the three of them when they were little, and sometimes about Mom and Dad when they met. They used to write each other these long letters every night, even though they had phones and email and saw each other all the time anyway. Mom cried the night before their wedding because Dad only had like five friends and no family to invite. She almost called it off except she didn’t want to disappoint Grandma after Aunt Angelica got married to Church in Vegas.”

“Wow,” Philip says, a little stunned. “He would have hated that.”

“I know! It’s weird, because all we’ve seen is that like they basically read each other’s minds but isn’t that crazy that they were about to get married and Mom almost did that? It’s like an x-ray. Seeing all the things that made them who they are. They’re still Mom and Dad, but just with cliff notes.”

Philip considers this. There’s something kind of poetic about it. Good material at least, and god knows his parents have had enough drama for that. “We should investigate.”

“Yes! I love it! What do you mean?”

“Like we should come up with a list of questions, like one of those personality tests where you say what color you like and it somehow knows that you’re stubborn. And then we ask everyone. Aunt Angelica, Aunt Peggy, Uncle Lafayette, Uncle Herc, Washington, everyone,” Philip counts on his fingers. “Alex can help too.”

“Yes!” Angelica grins deviously. “We should see if Theo will ask her dad. She told me he only ever calls Dad ‘Alexander,’ isn’t that weird? Since they hate each other now.”

“Because they used to be like friends, or something, before he took Grandpa’s Senate seat. Their offices were next door to each other.”

“I didn’t know that! Amazing.”

“Real shit.”

Jamie appears in the doorway, hair sticking up wildly like Philip’s used to. “Mom said time for dinner.”

"Then to dinner we will go," Philip says, smoothing Jamie's hair down as they go downstairs. "Jamie, what's Dad's favorite color?"

"Green."

"And what does that _mean_?" he asks dramatically to Angelica's giggles.

"It means that he likes green," Jamie answers, solemn and serious as always.

"Well," Philip says, glancing at Angelica who's stifling her laughter with difficulty. "What else could we possibly want to know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLR! COME! [iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com](http://iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com/)


	23. epilogue: have i done enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This could be nice," she offers, and his eyes light up.

_Alexander -_

_I know we don’t do this anymore. I almost forgot how, and was going to look at my old letters for reference._

_Sorry about that, I guess._

_Anyway I’m writing this and I’m not sure I’ll ever give it to you. I don't necessarily miss who we were, when we used to do this every night. We've come a long way, and I wouldn't give up our lives now, but I miss how easy everything seemed. I was so sure that as long as you and I were together everything would be fine. And I still think that it will be, obviously, but it isn't the lifeline it used to be. It's not enough anymore, even though I want so desperately for it to be._

_I guess I just thought that there would always be a part of you that was mine. I know you have other people to talk about work stuff, and politics, and the war, and everything else, but I thought that when you needed someone to be there for you it would be me. Isn’t that the point of marriage? To be the other’s person?_ _It's really just that you took away the faith I had, this unshakeable belief that there was someone out there that knew me, who I really was, and who would allow me to be that person. Does that make sense? You made me into a person I'm not by refusing to treat me like the person I am. And that's what I'm the most angry about. You could have given me the dignity of treating me like me, like the person you've chosen to share your life with, but you decided that your pride and your legacy and being right were more important._

_I just... I don't expect to be the most important thing in your life. I never did. I want US, the concept of what we're doing and what we did and all we have to be. That doesn't mean just the kids or just you and I and it doesn't even preclude your work and stuff. It's the idea of what we both want, a better world and a better life and being happy and us in it. I don't know. I love you, still, always, more than I knew that I could. That's what matters to me, and I don't want to lose sight of it._

\---------

“Hey.”

Eliza looks up, up to Alexander standing in the doorway of their bedroom with a few pieces of paper in his hands. She panics for a moment, irrationally thinking that he's holding the letter in her own hands.

"Hi," she says. "What's up?"

"I have an idea." He comes and sits lightly on the bed next to her, mirroring her crossed legs, back a little too straight. They're working through it, they're trying, but it's still hard sometimes, remembering all the things that were said and done and the illusions shattered.

They've always wanted to believe the best in each other. She never stopped hoping that he would actually come home when he promised, and he never stopped believing that she could save him from his demons. They knew how bad things could get but never stopped expecting the best in each other. And is that so wrong? To want the person you love to be the best version of themselves? To want them to be the person they want to be?

That’s why Alexander was so mad at her, a million years ago, when she didn’t want him to take the treasury job. Because she broke the deal.

She motions for the papers in his hands which he hands over with a kind of sigh of relief. Houses? in New York? A kind of funny warmth spreads through her chest.

"Yeah?" she asks, flipping through some of them, the pages of listings covered in his handwriting. One has a little drawing of a few stick figures outside.

He nods, so enthusiastically the bed bounces underneath them.

"This could be nice," she offers, and his eyes light up.

She knew that if she really wanted to, she could have guilted him into turning it down, and they both knew that. Eliza never quite let go of her childish fantasy that he would wake up one day and decide that she was all he wanted, that he would cut his hours back to nine to five and dedicate all that energy of his to being hers. She knew, from the second she met him, that it would never happen, that he wouldn't be the person she loved so entirely if he did. But it still stuck in the back of her mind, the wanting, even if she knew it wasn't really what she needed. Because the truth is that she could (and did) handle it, she just felt like she shouldn't want to. She always felt guilty, like the pushover everyone always said she was for not pushing back harder, even when she and Alexander both knew it wasn't like that at all.

Alexander takes care of her but never babies her; protects her but never shelters her. He’s the one person in her life she’s never felt underestimated her. She knows everyone thinks she’s naive, that she’s kind and selfless and sweet. She knows all of those things are true; she’s too old to run from her nature and too tired to keep imitating her sharper sisters. But she’s so much _more_ than that, and has always resented the way that everyone but him treats her like a child, thinking that she can’t handle hard truths and going out of their way to spare her feelings.

She knows she can be mean, she can be selfish, she can think things so dark she shocks herself.

 “I mean, we could look wherever you want," he qualifies. "If you even want to. I was thinking further uptown, where we used to live before Philip was born. It’s quieter and… I don’t know. I thought it might be nice. We can look closer to where your parents house is or maybe by the park or something. It’s just an idea. It’s up to you.”

She knows she can be mean, because she took a perverse joy in watching Alexander flail without her in the weeks after his affair was revealed. He finds it hard to sleep without her, and without any work to distract him he became listless and lost. She pretended she didn’t notice, and no one expected the grieving and scorned wife to.

She knows she can be selfish, because she made Angelica listen to her stories about how great Alexander was. Made her listen to her complaints about the petty, small inconveniences of marriage to the one man her sister couldn’t have. Took her and her immense capacity to put Eliza’s happiness over her own for granted.

She knows her capacity for dark thoughts, because she breathed a single, solitary, momentary sigh of relief when John Laurens died and guaranteed Alexander would never be able to leave her for him.

He looks away from her, fingers twitching against his thighs. “I know it sounds weird, but New York is somehow easier than here. In my mind at least. I think the kids would like it.”

Alexander knows these things about her, and loves her anyway.

She said she was helpless, all those years ago, but she’s since realized that wasn’t true. She chose Alexander. Maybe it’s not a storybook romance of love at first sight and magnetic forces drawing people together, but something more concrete. It’s more romantic, she decides, that she deliberately went down this path. She never needed him, but she did want him. She wanted him so badly it felt like need, felt like a hunger she had never imagined before. But she knows, deep down, and always has, that she could live without him. She just doesn’t want to.

She chooses him, like she’s done so many times before, reaches out and takes his hand.

“It’s quiet uptown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end! i'm so sad to see this go, but it was such a joy to write and i can't believe how many of you read it and all the lovely things you said.
> 
> i'm on tumblr! please come say hi, there are a lot of things i couldn't fit into this and i would love to share. [iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com](http://iaintinapatientphase.tumblr.com/)
> 
> anyway, i'm working on a story about maria reynolds that will probably be up in a few weeks. i have many kid related things in idea stages and many others. THIS WON'T BE THE LAST YOU SEE OF ME.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL, SO MUCH!


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